The Black Dragon
by Elescave
Summary: Regulus returns to the UK two years after the Final Battle... In tow he has a few sardonic remarks, a secret conspiracy, and a sprinkle of dark magic. Epic!
1. Mail from overseas

**DISCLAIMER : The characters and past events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.**

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><p><strong>The Black Dragon<strong>

**Part I: The Impostor**

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><p><strong>1: Mail from overseas<strong>

Harry Potter, resident of Number 58, Diagon Alley, London, was leaning back with a contented sigh after he had swallowed the last piece of his breakfast toast. It was a fine morning, with bright beams of sunlight falling through the open window that also let a soft breeze in, little over two years after the grim event of the Final Battle. He smiled at the sight of his redheaded girlfriend fighting off a bothersome insect that was trying to help itself to some of her food.

Rubbing some last remainders of sleep out of his left eye under his glasses, he seized the Daily Prophet that Ginny had put down on the chair next to him and opened it. Harry was still not very fond of the paper after all the lies and defamations it had printed before and during the war, but since Kingsley Shacklebolt had taken up the post of Minister for Magic, the quality of its reporting had improved noticeably.

Shortly after Voldemort's downfall, the freshly appointed Minister had asked both Ron and Harry, as well as the surprise-war-hero Neville (Harry still had to fondly smile at that thought) to step into Ministry employment and help apprehend the rest of those who had – with or without a Dark Mark on their forearms – aided the big snake in his renewed rise to power. They had followed his call gladly. This had been Harry's big task in his short Auror training: due to the outstanding skills he had shown during the war and the huge amount of experience he had collected in the process, the three years of apprenticeship that were usually required in order to become a dark wizard capturer were cut in half in his case, as well as for Ron. Regarding his months-long engagement in the resistance at Hogwarts and the outstanding courage he had shown facing the Dark Lord himself in the final battle, the same offer was made to Neville Longbottom. Yet the once so self-conscious young man who had matured dramatically in the past years had declined in favour of an academic career in Herbology.

Kingsley's interest in cooperation with Harry had not ended with appointing him an Auror, though. The unconventional Minister had also asked Harry to help him reform the Ministry in logical consequence of the corruption and the lobbyism that had hindered its effective intervention in the on-goings of the past years. After all, the Ministry's ineffective organisation had, in fact, already enabled many Death Eaters to escape justice after Voldemort's first downfall sixteen years ago. Of course, Harry was not familiar with political procedures, but he had observed many things over the years, and could thus point out much to Kingsley (they were soon on first name terms) during several conferences that also included other knowledgeable members of wizarding society. After the incapable Fudge, the grim, manipulative Scrimgeour, and the Imperiused Thicknesse, the curious appearance of Shacklebolt with his deep, calm voice, his tall, dark skinned, and quite imposing physique, and his unusual fashion style, including his golden earring, brought a pleasantly fresh breeze to the post of the Minister for Magic.

In the meantime, Hermione and Ginny had returned to Hogwarts to finish their school education together. In June they had taken their N.E.W.T.s, and soon after Ginny had been contracted as chaser by the Holyhead Harpies, whereas Hermione had been given the opportunity for which she had longed – to promote the welfare of non-human magical creatures – by taking up a post in the Department for the Regulation and Control of said beings. There was hardly a Weasley family dinner – those took place almost every weekend – during which she did not elaborate in length on her recent projects until someone managed to (rather rudely) change the topic when her explanations started to tire the people seated around the table. Still, Harry was glad to see his friend so enthusiastic and full of ideas for the future.

The whole of Wizarding Britain seemed to brim with this kind of energy – an atmosphere of departure into a new, bright future. It was as if the country had held its breath in unison during the past twenty-five years, and now that the dark shadow had finally truly passed, it was suddenly inhaling deeply and rolling up its sleeves to make up for the lost time. Granted, there had not been a total standstill in the years between the war. Life had gone on, people had felt safe for a while, even the Quidditch World Cup had taken place in Britain in 1994. Still, these days, wizarding folk was filled with a kind of optimism that could not be compared to anything Harry had seen before. People were making vigorous plans for their futures as if nothing could get in their ways.

Only when thinking of those they had lost two years ago did they halt in their steps. The second of May, the anniversary of the Great Battle, had been declared a national day of mourning.

'I would like to go to the cemetery today,' Ginny declared before sipping her tea. 'It's been a month since I've last visited Fred already, and with all the training and the game next Saturday I won't have time the next week,' she added.

Harry looked up at her, marvelling at the way the sunlight was reflected by her red hair, and nodded. 'I'll come with you.' He looked up at the clock that hung over their fireplace. 'We should be going soon, though, Bill and Fleur have invited us for lunch.'

Ginny raised her slim eyebrows, which enlarged her beautiful brown eyes. 'Oh? Why haven't you told me that before?'

Harry shrugged, grinning rather sheepishly. 'The owl came yesterday during my shift. I wanted to tell you in the evening, but then you came up with this… erm… pretty nightie and it sort of slipped my mind…' He felt warmth rise to his face, but held his girlfriend's gaze. After the end of the war, they had immediately reunited. The following year was filled with much longing and waiting for holidays and Hogsmeade weekends during which they could spend time together. When Ginny had finally finished school, she had first moved back to the Burrow, which had resulted in some awkward situations… -It was simply not very relaxing to know that the parents of the girl you wanted to get close to were sleeping three floors above you and might pass the door anytime on their way to fetch a drink from the kitchen.

Thus, by September they had made the decision to move together. Harry had so far been sharing a room with Ron in the Auror Academy, a building near the Ministry. He had enjoyed the company and the comforts of being supplied by the Auror house elf that seemed happy to have someone to take care of (in light of Professor McGonagall's words in his career advice session during his fifth year that the Ministry had not accepted an Auror trainee in three years back then, this notion was easy to understand).

When now he had mentioned the house he had inherited from Sirius in their discussion of where they could live, Ginny had shaken her head vigorously, making it quite clear that no ten hippogriffs were able to force her into living in 'that creepy, dark place'. It had not taken much to persuade Harry on that point – the prospect had not cheered him up either. Ginny had suggested selling the house. Deep inside, Harry knew he eventually would, but in some way, it was one of the few things that he had to keep the memory of Sirius alive… -even if the man himself had loathed the place. In the end, it was not as if Harry was hard pressed for money. The contents of his parents' vault would easily suffice to sustain him for the rest of his life, wife and children included, and he had a profitable job. He had not even touched Sirius' vault yet. He did not even know how much gold it held.

Ginny and he had found a nice three-room-apartment over a shop in Diagon Alley. It was a cosy little place in the heart of Wizarding London, perfect for a young couple like them. True, it had its drawbacks. People had ogled him at the beginning every time he had left the house to take a walk. However, that was something he was confronted with at work as well, and by now, about eight months after they had moved in, most witches and wizards had gotten used to Harry's regular appearance in Diagon Alley and had taken to treating him as they dealt with anyone else, albeit especially polite.

Ginny sniggered in answer to his retelling of the previous evening.

They held each other's gaze for a while, reminiscing together in silence. Then Harry returned his attention to the newspaper in his hands. 'They say the Croaking Crows are playing in the Three Broomsticks tonight,' Harry said. 'Perhaps we could go there. We haven't been out in a while. Seems they're having some new songs as well,' he continued while skimming the article. 'And they've got a sitar player, now.'

The fluttering of wings interrupted their breakfast conversation. A common barn owl landed next to the basket that held the pieces of toast. Ginny reached out to relieve it of its letter, but the bird hopped towards Harry, throwing a reproving glance at the redhead.

With an apologetic smile and a shrug, Harry folded the Prophet back together and put it aside to retrieve the letter. The owl stretched out its leg, and he untied it. The Gringotts seal adorned the slim roll, and Harry raised an eyebrow in wonder. What could the wizard bank want from him?

When he unrolled the parchment, his eyes fell on tiny, scrawny, very neat writing.

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><p><em>Dear Mr. Harry Potter,<em>

_To our great regret, it was brought to our attention that the inheritance you have accepted in 1996, including an estate at No. 12, Grimmauld Place, and the contents of vault No. 711, might have been given to you erroneously. In order to resolve this matter, we expect your presence at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, Diagon Alley, London, at 15:00h this afternoon._

_Please bring the vault key and all other items belonging to the inheritance presently in your possession._

_Should you not follow this invitation, legal steps will be undertaken._

_Sincerely, Grignok (goblin in charge of the Black family property)._

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><p>Harry frowned. 'Erroneously given to him'? What did that mean? Was Sirius' testament invalid after all? If so, why were they coming up with this, now, after four years? And who was supposed to be Sirius' heir if he was not? Bellatrix Lestrange was – furtunately! – dead and gone. Andromeda Tonks, her sister that had been disowned by her parents after marrying a muggleborn wizard, was still alive. Well, Harry would not begrudge <em>her<em> the inheritance. The woman was one of those who had paid the most for their final victory – first losing her husband, then both her daughter and her son-in-law. Now she had to bring her grandson up all by herself. Of course, Harry, who was Teddy's godfather, helped her whenever she needed aid, as did the Weasleys. Nevertheless, no person should have to go through what she had had to endure. If now she was granted the inheritance, it was only what she deserved. Yet there was also her sister, Narcissa Malfoy… -Perhaps the Black property would be divided between the two of them, if Sirius' last will proved to be null and void?

'_Harry!'_ Ginny's rather impatient voice broke through his reverie, sounding as if she had not called him for the first time.

'Huh?' he looked up at her.

'Who's that letter from?' she pressed him for an answer.

'Oh.' He handed it to her. 'Something's wrong with what I got from Sirius after he died,' he replied curtly, not knowing how to phrase it more accurately.

Ginny wrinkled her freckled nose while her eyes skimmed the page, a long lock of red hair falling onto the parchment. She snorted. '"Invitation"! Sounds more as if you were summoned to a formal hearing or something! Goblins…' Her brown eyes looked up and settled on Harry's face. 'So, what do you think?'

Harry shrugged. 'Dunno. I don't really mind giving away Sirius' money as long as someone gets it who deserves it.'

Ginny dropped her gaze once more onto the letter. 'I can't help the feeling that the whole thing sounds fishy. I mean, they didn't _really_ state what's up. Why should they find a fault _now_, that they have not seen in four years?'

'Yeah,' Harry agreed, 'I've been wondering about that, too.'

'Well, I guess there's nothing for it,' Ginny decided, 'we'll just have to go there and hear what this Grignok has to say.'

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><p>.~*~.<p>

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><p>The cemetery of Ottery St. Catchpole was a sleepy place, as was the town itself, especially on Monday morning around eleven, when most inhabitants had gone to work in the bigger town a few miles away and the children were still bent over their books. Only two elderly women were tending to graves when Harry and Ginny arrived. They had Apparated into a niche that the church and the wall around the churchyard formed and that they always found deserted and unwatched, and now they walked up the winding path that led over the old cemetery to where the oversized stone remembrall stood that served as Fred's headstone. This day, it stood solid and unmoving – the churchyard was shared by wizards and muggles alike, after all –, but sometimes, when no muggles were around, a selection of Weasley's Wild-Fire Whiz-Bangs burst from the remembrall that then became transparent to show pictures of a widely grinning, freckle-faced Fred that delighted in the sight of his fireworks and waved cheekily at his visitors. Mrs. Weasley burst out in tears every time she saw this, which was why these days, she only visited her son's last resting-place during daytime, when there always was bound to be a muggle nearby.<p>

Ginny knelt down and – peering around to make sure the old women were not looking their way – conjured a vase, filled it with a softly muttered 'Aguamenti', and put in the large bouquet of flowers they had brought. She placed the vase in front of the headstone, where it joined another bouquet and a single sunflower. For a few moments, she remained kneeling and seemed to be lost in thoughts.

Harry had no real mind for cemeteries. He had wanted to visit his parents' grave, yes, but in the end, he had found that he preferred to preserve his memory of the actual _living_ persons by thinking of them in situations that remind him of them instead of visiting the one place that called the hard reality of their death to mind. When Ginny and he had talked about that, Ginny had agreed with him, but she had also argued that the peaceful atmosphere in the churchyard was a reprieve she welcomed every once in a while in between her hectic daily life, and that visiting Fred's grave was also a way of showing her parents that they were not alone in their grief.

The delicate and yet so tough young woman rose and stepped back so that Harry could put an arm around her shoulders. Their gazes rested on the headstone for another few moments; then they turned and slowly walked back to their Apparition point.

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><p>They Apparated to the beach near Shell Cottage, where about twenty-six months ago Harry and his companions had arrived after escaping the Death Eaters' clutches at Malfoy Manor. As so many other places, the sandy, windswept shore near Bill and Fleur's house left Harry with a slightly melancholic feeling.<p>

The young couple took off their shoes and socks and walked along the line where the foamy seawater licked the golden sand, feeling it tickle their toes. Despite the fresh wind, it was a warm, sunny day, and they were not expected up in the house for another half an hour.

'I'm actually surprised that Bill has invited us this soon again. We've only seen them last week at the family dinner. Did they mention any special reason?' Ginny asked, while she fought unavailingly to keep the long strands of her hair from whipping into her face.

Harry shook his head. 'Nope. Just said they wanted to use the opportunity, since both you and I have a day off, and Bill has taken leave this week.'

'Hm.' Ginny's gaze shifted into the distance, settling on the sparkling surface of the sea. 'You know, I think I really want to go and see the Croaking Crows tonight.'

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><p>On their way through the garden of Shell Cottage, Harry laid down a flower he had nicked from Ginny's bucket on the red earthed mound of Dobby's grave.<p>

A minute after that, he was pulled into a big, companionable hug by Bill who ushered him into the house. Seconds later his arms were filled up by Fleur and Victoire, who rested on her arm. Bill and Fleur's little daughter had been born little over a year ago. 'It eez zo good to zea you!' her mother greeted him.

Silently, Harry wondered when Fleur was finally going to lose her heavy accent. She was living in Britain for years, now, after all. Sometimes he thought she might actually cling to it on purpose, fancying it more elegant than the brisk English manner of speaking.

'Zeet down,' she prompted the pair of them. 'Ze Minister must be 'ere any moment as well.' With that, she turned back to the hearth to tend the meal.

'Kingsley's coming?' Harry asked Bill who joined them at the table.

Ginny's eldest brother shrugged. 'Met him this morning when I paid a short visit to the Ministry to hand in some papers that they urgently needed before my holidays. He was just going to owl you concerning some important matter, but I said he could join us for lunch and talk to you directly.'

Harry frowned and pushed up his glasses. 'I was stupid to think taking a holiday on a Monday was a clever idea. Now all kinds of people want to discuss business on my i_one_/i free day off this week…'

'All kinds of people?' Bill enquired interestedly.

'Harry's received a letter from Gringotts today,' Ginny chipped in. 'You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?' After all, Bill worked at the Wizarding Bank.

Her brother shook his head, however, which made his fang earring (that he still wore even after founding a family and pursuing a respectable career in a noble, ancient wizarding institution) dangle around and collide with his neck. 'What is it about?'

Harry shrugged. 'Something seems to be wrong with Sirius' inheritance.'

Once more Ginny rose to speak. 'Is it usual procedure to double check such things after four years?' she questioned sceptically while she lifted Victoire onto her lap.

Bill shook his head again and pulled the corners of his mouth down in a manner of saying 'No idea why that would be happening' while Fleur put a pot of tea on the table. 'The only reason I can think of for reviewing an inheritance transaction is for someone else to make claims.'

'But who would make claims on Sirius' property?' Ginny asked.

'Well, the people who'd have been entitled to it are his cousins, Andromeda and Narcissa Malfoy. I can't imagine Andromeda wanting the inheritance, and even less going to Gringotts behind my back…,' said Harry.

'And Mrs. Malfoy surely would not be so malevolent after everything you've done for her family!' his girlfriend added in outrage, which earned her a surprised look from the girl on her lap. 'Without you, there'd be no Malfoy left outside the walls of Azkaban!'

'They _did_ change sides in the end,' Harry reminded her for she tended to still carry bad feelings towards the pureblood family. After what Ginny had had to go through during her first year at Hogwarts due to Lucius Malfoy's scheming, Harry could not really blame her, though. For himself, he had made peace with the many unpleasant encounters he had had both with Malfoy junior and Malfoy senior, but he could not find it in him to like them either.

'I still think it's fishy that they were freed of _all_ charges, Harry,' Ginny emphasised. 'But don't worry,' she added, seeing Harry's weary face, 'I'm not going to start that discussion again. It's done anyway.'

Just as Harry smiled at her gratefully, green flames burst to life in the fireplace and Kingsley Shacklebolt's tall frame entered the small kitchen of Shell Cottage. He shook out the rim of his long robes that had caught some ash and greeted them warmly in his dark, booming voice.

After the same hearty greeting that Harry and Ginny had already gone through, he took a seat while Bill assisted his wife at setting the table.

'Bill said you wanted to talk with me?' Harry asked him straight forward.

'Yes,' Kingsley admitted. 'I'm sorry to disturb you on your day off, but something has been brought to my attention that might interest you.' He leaned back to give Bill room to put the plates on the table and arrange the cutlery.

When Fleur had carried over the diverse bowls that held the warm food, the hosts settled down as well.

'So, what is so interesting?' Harry demanded to know while he poured sauce over his potatoes.

'It seems there has been sent an appeal to the Wizard Registry this morning' – the Wizarding Population Registry was a newly founded office that Kingsley had set up to divide the citizen registry from the law enforcement under which it had been handled up until a year ago – ', an appeal from someone who claims to be your godfather's brother.' Kingsley took a bite and watched Harry's reaction.

'Sirius' _brother_?' Harry asked in disbelief. 'Sirius only had one brother, and he has died over twenty years ago!'

'Nevertheless,' Kingsley said calmly after he had swallowed, 'there is a person claiming to be Regulus Black.' He reached into an inner pocket of his robes and retrieved a slim roll of parchment that he held out to Harry.

The well trained Auror hesitated. This could be a twisted trick to get to him by one of the few Death Eaters they had not managed to get hold of…

'No need to be cautious. It was properly checked before it was handed to me,' the Minister for Magic assured him.

Harry seized the parchment and unrolled it. Since everyone's attention rested on him, he read the letter aloud.

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><p><em>Wizarding Population Registry<em>

_Ministry of Magic_

_London_

_England_

_Dear Mr. or Mrs.,_

_Following my decision not to endorse the Dark Lord's plans in 1979, I, Regulus Arcturus Black, born on December 29th 1961, was forced to leave Britain and continue life abroad. As consequence of my disappearance, it has come to my attention, I was declared dead three years thereafter. Since it was of uttermost importance that neither the Dark Lord nor any of his followers learn of my whereabouts, for they undoubtedly would have sought vengeance for my betrayal of their cause, I refrained from correcting this misapprehension._

_Now, however, at a point in time at which it seems that the Dark Lord has been defeated for good and the majority of his followers have been apprehended and brought to justice, I feel it is my duty to return to my home country to aid it in its recovery from the latest war, and take up the responsibility that is mine as the only survivor of the Black family line._

_Therefore I kindly request that you consider the recognition of my identity and the re-entry of my name in the citizen registry._

_With highest regards, Regulus Arcturus Black._

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><p>Harry peered into the round of people sitting at the kitchen table to catch the others' reactions. Ginny's face wore the same sceptical reaction as it had this morning while perusing the Gringotts letter. Fleur looked indifferent, feeding Victoire.<p>

'Well, this is at least no mere joke. Whoever wrote this is either in fact Regulus Black or a talented impostor. No crook like Mundungus could have come up with that letter,' Bill commented.

Ginny grimaced. 'Yes. You know, this actually sounds like Lucius Malfoy. All this 'serving my country'-stuff and the wording…'

'It _does_ sound as if the writer had been brought up in a pureblood family, yes, or is at least familiar with the pureblood mindset,' Kingsley agreed. 'That, however, could also be a point in favour of the authenticity of the letter,' he annotated.

'So you think it could be genuine?' Harry asked in surprise.

Kingsley moved his head pensively from side to side. 'I am not certain. After what you have told about Regulus Black's demise in your interview' – Harry had given the Daily Prophet a lengthy interview a month after the Final Battle, sketching out his own odyssey and describing in greater detail the heroic deeds of the unknown war heroes (Snape and Black amongst them, but also Dobby) on the way to Voldemort's defeat – 'it is hard to believe he could still be alive…'

'You'll find out the truth this afternoon,' Bill stated.

Harry looked puzzled at him.

'Eetz seemple, eezn't eet?' Fleur threw in. ''oever wants to be recognised as the Black 'eir will do eet for a reason – they will want the Black money. Zat eez why you 'ave received zat letter from Gringotts.'

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><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 1<strong>

I am well aware that you don't have to register when living in Britain (I'm sitting comfortably in the heart of Scotland while typing this). However, the Ministry of Magic does need information about its population to control under age magic, after all, so I thought it might well be that they do have a register.

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><p><strong>AN about The Black Dragon**

I have long flirted with the lure of writing Harry Potter fan fiction, but in the end I was always too much in awe of the challenge that writing really good fan fiction poses. Last year, I eventually succumbed to the temptation and wrote the first 15 chapters of this story. What I thrive for is a rich, detailed story that pulls the reader right into it. That is, after all, what I look for in fan fiction as a reader, and I would settle for no less as a writer. Do I succeed?

_**The Black Dragon**_ will consist of several parts.  
><em>Part I<em> (chapters 1-4) is an introduction, concentrating on the known characters in the Potter universe and how they've been faring since the Final Battle;  
><em>Part II<em> (chapters 5-?) concentrates on Regulus' past after his presumed death and contains quite a bit of Regulus/OC, though in a slowly developing way.  
><em>Part III<em> will return to the times two years after the Final Battle. How will Europe develop without the threat of a dark lord? What other groups will come to the forefront, now that Voldemort and his Death Eaters no longer dominate the political stage? How will wizarding society deal with the growing influence of muggle culture? And what can Regulus contribute to these political themes?

I aim to be as much in canon as possible. My way of resurrecting Regulus fits the books entirely. Nevertheless, I do ignore one or two tiny bits of information that J.K. has passed on to us in interviews, though it will not be of importance to the plot.

I love to critically discuss my writing with others - so feel free to contact me through a review or a PM.

Looking for a beta reader (preferably British English).


	2. Back room business

****DISCLAIMER : The characters and past events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.****

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><p><strong>2: Back room business<strong>

Harry had a split mind while he approached Gringotts, Ginny at his side. On the one hand, a cold anger simmered in his chest, outrage over the brazenness of this soon to be unmasked impostor, on the other hand, far in the back of his consciousness, a small voice of doubt nagged at him. What if…?

-No. He squashed the idea before it was even formed in his head. Regulus Black was dead, and no feeble hope that the prospect of encountering Sirius' brother might bring up in Harry was going to change it. The dead could not be brought back; that lesson he had learned.

The shop window of Quality Quidditch Supplies advertised a sale of broom handle polish, but Harry paid it no attention, even though he could have used some. He did not halt in his tracks until he stood in front of the imposing building in which the Wizarding Bank was located. One could hardly tell when looking at its white gleaming front these days that only a few years ago a fire spiting dragon had forced its way from the dark underground high security vaults of Gringotts to daylight, causing noticeable damage to the much too small doorways of the place (too small for a dragon, that is).

The couple walked past the watch-goblin through the bronze entrance gates and passed the silver doors that now once more held their old warning:

…_if you seek beneath our floors__  
><em>_A treasure that was never yours,__  
><em>_Thief, you have been warned, beware__  
><em>_Of finding more than treasure there._

Well, now Harry knew what could be found beneath Gringotts' floors apart from masses of gold. Or perhaps they had reconsidered their choice of security measures? For a moment he thought of asking Bill about it, but then he reminded himself that goblins were secretive folk and Bill was certainly not allowed to give such information away.

They stepped into the marble hall with its many counters, dozens of grim looking goblins behind them busily counting money, scribbling notes and stamping important papers. As a small boy of eleven, this place had utterly overwhelmed Harry, but even as a young adult, it had a remarkable effect on him: he felt small again.

Especially so since the goblins had never quite forgotten the mayhem that he had caused in their sacred halls. He had ashamed them by prying what had been entrusted to them out of their hands. It had, in fact, taken some subtle persuasion from the Minister for Magic before the goblins were willing at all to offer Harry their services again. Their cranky disposition towards him added up to Harry's concerns regarding today's business. Would the goblins be inclined to rashly believe anyone who purported to have claims to Harry's possessions just to get back at him?

With a tug on his arm, Ginny pulled Harry out of his reverie toward an unoccupied counter. 'Good afternoon,' she greeted the goblin even though that was lost love – goblins did not do politeness. 'Mr. Potter received a note this morning that the goblin who is assigned to the Black Family Property will await him at three o'clock this afternoon.'

The goblin looked down its particularly long and crooked nose in a fashion that distinctly reminded Harry of the looks Narcissa Malfoy had worn on her face in his school time. Nowadays Draco's mother was always carefully polite when their paths crossed. 'Has Mr. Potter brought the items that he was requested to bring?'

Great. So every goblin in Gringotts apparently knew what was going on!

Harry nodded in answer. 'Yeah, I've got everything I could think of.'

'Very well. You will be guided by a goblin to Grignok's workplace.' He called one of his kinsmen who, with a curt 'Follow me' headed off through one of the many doors that led away from the main hall.

As it turned out, there was a whole number of small offices located next to the hall, spreading on three floors. The offices on the first floor were tiny and only divided by slim wooden panels. Harry could clearly hear voices from inside of them. The workplaces on the second level were not much more spacious, but no whisper escaped them.

Grignok's workspace, however, was situated on the third floor. A long corridor led from the winding staircase through this storey. Had the lower floors left a rational, businesslike impression on Harry, this storey had a much closer resemblance to the money oozing luxury of the counter hall. Fabric wallpaper, interwoven with golden strands, reflected the candlelight that was issued from grand, silver chandeliers. A thick, expensive looking Persian carpet covered the floor.

Harry locked eyes with Ginny, who shook her head minutely to indicate that this wasn't the right time to make comments. Her warm hand settled in his and she prompted him to follow their guide who waited for them some distance ahead, shuffling his feet impatiently.

As they walked along the corridor, they passed several doors, each carrying four or five signs that Harry could not depict. Eventually, their guide stopped in front of a door close to the end of the corridor. Harry had a short moment to peruse the merely three signs that were attached to it – and suddenly he understood what they were. They were family crests. The one in the middle was the one that hung in Sirius' house, and the left one Harry dimly remembered to be the Malfoys'.

The goblin knocked, and the door swung open immediately. It opened to the sight of a big room filled with filing cabinets. In its centre, right in line with the door, stood a large desk, behind which a small goblin had its place. In front of the desk stood a pair of comfortable armchairs made of mahogany wood, their cushions covered in dark green velvet. At the wall to the left of the door stood a smaller desk, behind which an accountant did his work, an archivist assisting him by handing him the files he needed. Both of them inclined their heads minutely as Harry and Ginny entered the room.

The goblin behind the big desk, that Harry guessed to be Grignok, did likewise and motioned for them to sit down in the armchairs. The bit of hair that grew on his head and out of his ears was snow white, and his face was more wrinkled than Harry had seen it on any goblin so far.

'Mr. Potter!' he greeted Harry when they had settled down. 'I had been hoping to see you much sooner than this! After all, the Black property is a great responsibility that has not been properly taken care of by its owners in fifteen years.' He paused and looked at Harry penetratingly. 'At least you have followed my invitation,' he noted at last.

Grignok shifted some papers on his desk and subsequently stared at Harry with impenetrable, black eyes that were unnaturally magnified by his monocle. 'It is my duty to inform you that – due to the misinformation we were handed by the Ministry of Magic – after the passing of Mrs. Walburga Black in the year of 1985 the Black family property was assigned to the wrong person,' the goblin rattled down in a monotonous voice. 'Lady Black's last will had been to pass her belongings on to her _youngest_ son, Regulus Arcturus Black. However, since intelligence had reached us three years prior that this man had been declared dead, the Black family property was allotted to the elder son, Sirius Black. This in turn was the reason why, after said man died in 1996, you, Mr. Potter, who had been appointed his sole heir, were registered as the rightful owner of the Black family vault, five estates-'

_Five?_ Ginny mouthed at Harry, who could do nothing but shrug to tell her he had had no idea.

'-in London, Aberdeenshire, Hampshire, Florence, and South France, as well as the last remaining family House Elf.'

'You say it _was _passed on to the wrong person as if this was a fact…?' Harry threw in his question before Grignok had any chance to go on. All this talk of 'Black family property' had his mind spinning. He just was not made for this officialese. Harry was more the hands-on type of person, even though in his job as Auror he gave paperwork the respect it deserved. He simply did not need that on his one day off.

'It is,' Grignok confirmed. 'I have spoken with Regulus Black, the rightful heir of Lady Walburga, merely two hours ago.'

Harry leaned forward. 'He was _here_?' He pointed down. 'In one of these seats?'

Grignok nodded in silent confirmation.

'And why did he not bother to wait and speak with me in person if he really is who he claims to be? What makes you know he's not a trickster?' Harry demanded to know with a raised voice, shaken by this development.

'Mr. Potter, please calm yourself,' Grignok countered with emphasis on _'calm'_, not on 'please'. 'As diligence is one of the core virtues of Gringotts,' he continued, 'I _of course_ have asked for an identity verification.' He pressed the last words through his clenched, pointy teeth, obviously feeling deeply hurt in his goblin pride.

From his dealings with Griphook, Harry knew that one had to tread carefully with these beings. 'I'm sorry,' he apologised therefore, 'I got carried away. I did not mean to say you were not doing your job correctly. But may I ask how this verification was done?'

The change of tone seemed to appease the goblin to some degree that allowed him to answer. 'I demanded to see his wand, of course.'

'His wand?' Harry asked stupidly. Regulus Black must have lost his wand in Voldemort's cave. Could an impostor have gotten hold of it?

'Yes, Mr. Potter, his wand. A wizard's wand has always been the most reliable means of verifying his identity. Mister Black's wand was registered with us shortly after his seventeenth birthday, when Lady Walburga dictated her will to me. You will also notice that therefore I have _seen_ Mr. Black already twenty-two years ago, which enables me to additionally verify his identity by sight. I _recognised_ him.'

A dumbfound look spread over Harry's face as he leaned back into the armchair. He looked at Ginny in search for some kind of logical explanation for all of this. Could you fake wands? Surely looks could be deceiving after such a long time, but faking a wand that had disappeared twenty-one years ago? Who – apart from the goblins – would remember it at all? Mr. Ollivander had settled down abroad. Surely no one had got hold of him there and forced him to produce a duplicate?

'I must demand the return of the Black vault key, now, as well as the keys to No. 12, Grimmauld Place,' Grignok pressed Harry.

He hesitated. Harry knew that from Grignok's point of view, the goblin was entitled to make this demand and expect Harry to meet it. Nevertheless, the boy who had lost too much in his life already was not willing to give his deceased godfather's assets up this easily. Well, in truth, he would not be left with nothing. Sirius had inherited some money from an uncle shortly after he had run away from home, after all, which was not part of the Black family inheritance. Still, for some reason Harry did not want to let go of the house, and even less so when that meant giving it to a swindler.

'I would like to speak to this Mr. Black first,' he stated flatly.

Grignok peered over his monocles with a chiding frown on his features. 'Mr. Potter,' he commenced once more, 'you have no right to make demands. You have come into this inheritance unrightfully and will thus return it immediately. Otherwise I see myself forced to call the authorities!' The small goblin had risen on his chair and bent menacingly over his desk.

Harry had half a mind to take his chance – in the end he knew most of the people who worked in the Department of Law Enforcement. However, Ginny hissed at him not to be a fool. 'You have no hold at the moment. Hand over the keys, and then you can still think of a way to uncover what's really going on.'

Glaring darkly at Grignok, Harry fished the keys out of the back pocket of his trousers and threw them onto the desk. He jumped up and made for the door. Yet the goblin's call held him back.

'Mr. Potter, not so fast. I have something for you.'

Harry barely refrained from snorting. Who would have anticipated that! After all this talking about losing Sirius' money he was _getting_ something!

'Here is your receipt, so that _everything is in order_ ' – the way Grignok said that, it was clear that he was still affronted by Harry's implied accusations.

Harry stood with his arms folded near the door, refusing to cooperate any further, even if that only meant taking the piece of parchment that the goblin held out to him.

Rolling her eyes, Ginny accepted it in Harry's stead. 'I'll take this. Thank you for your time and patience.'

The goblin grimaced.

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><p><strong>.~*~.<strong>

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><p>Harry slammed his travelling cloak into a corner and slumped down in his favourite seat. He fumed. Here he was, the man who had faced down the wizard that was so dark, evil, and intimidating that no one had dared utter his name, but he could not stand his ground with a grim old goblin!<p>

His mind worked frantically, trying to decide what steps to undertake next in order to put a stop to the impostor's game. The young Auror jumped up and moved over to the small desk he had set up for those evenings when he chose to take the paperwork home. He fumbled for a piece of parchment and a quill and scribbled down a quick message to Bill, asking him how reliable wand verification was and if it could not be tricked. He would have fire-called him, but Bill and Fleur had mentioned that they were going to visit Fleur's parents in France for a few days.

Blowing over the parchment to make the ink dry faster, Harry hurried to the tiny balcony adjacent to the kitchen where they had set up a place for their owl. Harry could not bear the thought of replacing Hedwig, but he had bought a majestic Eurasian Eagle Owl with crème-coloured and black feathers and vibrant orange eyes for Ginny. Bubo sat on his perch, looking with disinterest through the window at Harry. Even though Harry had paid for him, the proud bird always made a point of showing him that he knew that Harry was not his rightful owner, despite Ginny's expressed permission for Harry to use him whenever he needed an owl.

Having rolled the parchment together, Harry opened the French window. 'Good evening Bubo,' Harry greeted him. 'I have a special delivery for you. It could well be that you have to fly to France, to the Delacours. It's for Bill,' he explained. The strange thing about Bubo was that he always grew much more interested when he was asked to do a long distance delivery. He seemed to regard flights within England beneath him. Graciously, the huge bird stretched one of his thin legs toward Harry. When the wizard had fastened the letter, Bubo lifted his wings lazily, spread them slowly as if doing some loosening-up exercises until he was standing with his full, majestic wingspan of almost seven feet on the perch, leaned forwards, and eventually took off with one grand flap.

Pleased to have done something, Harry stepped back into the kitchen and rummaged in the cupboard for tea. He was alone in the flat. Even though it had initially been his idea, Harry had been too upset to go to the concert in the Three Broomsticks, so that Ginny had asked a friend of hers to come along instead.

The young wizard pondered while his tea water heated up. What else could he do? Apart from contacting Bill about the wand, he really could think of no way to undermine Grignok's decision at the moment. Yet the impostor had made a severe mistake: if Harry were foul enough to trick people like that, he would be smart and make a bolt for it as soon as he had the money. That guy, however, seemed to feel very safe. It almost looked as if he planed to impersonate Sirius' brother for a longer period of time to milk the cow as best as he could. That gave Harry plenty of time to expose him.

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><p><strong>.~*~.<strong>

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><p>The-Man-who-lived-twice's mood did not improve over the following days. Tuesday had been loaded with work, and Bubo took his time – which was understandable in regard to where Harry had sent him but did little to heighten the Auror's spirits.<p>

When on Wednesday he finally got hold of Kingsley in the lunch break (fortunately Harry had at least no night shifts this week), the Minister could not give him any new information. 'The introduction of the voting system requires all my time and energy at the moment, and that of my assistants. I have sent the Black case back to the Wizard Registry for them to deal with it.'

So Harry put in a 'coffee break' in the afternoon and headed up to Level Seven, the only Level in the Ministry Headquarters that had been able to spare a room for the new mini-Department. Tiny it was indeed. It reminded Harry very much of the time he had visited Mr. Weasley's Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office. The room of the Wizard Registry was not as small, but the number of files stored there was bigger, and the Ministry employers that worked there had also to leave enough space to be able to receive visitors. Kingsley had said that in the further course of reforming the Ministry, the division of the building would be overhauled as well, but presently, the Wizard Registry Offices were a barely sufferable interim solution at best.

'Good afternoon, Mrs. Barbary,' Harry greeted the file worker as he entered. The woman had graduated from Hogwarts only four or five years before Harry from what he knew, and was the sister of The Weird Sister's guitarist.

'Mr. Potter!' she beamed up at him from behind her desk. 'To what do I owe your most welcome visit?'

Harry returned her greetings and proceeded to explain his concern. 'So,' he finished, 'what are you going to do, now?'

Mrs. Barbary ogled at Harry, discomfort apparent on her features. 'Well sir,' she stammered – ever since he had defeated the Dark Lord for a second (or more the umpteenth) and final time, people tended to treat him with even more respect than they had already shown to him when as an eleven year old boy he had entered The Leaky Cauldron for the first time and everyone had shaken his hand with awe – 'the matter has been settled already.'

'_Settled_? How?'

Realising that her news weren't taken well, she averted Harry's eyes. 'Well, I invited Mr. Black into my office yesterday and asked him a couple of questions in reference to his long absence. Afterwards I accompanied him to the wand registry office, where his wand was compared with old files that we were fortunate to come upon after some research. Everything was in order,' she concluded apologetically, 'and therefore I accredited full citizenship to him again.'

Now it was Harry's turn to ogle at Mrs. Barbary. 'Just like that?'

'Now, Mr. Potter,' the file worker's voice still held its sweetness, but grew somewhat firmer, 'not"_just like that"_. Of course, I did everything in my power to determine Mr. Black's true identity, and I came to the conclusion that he did speak the truth.'

'So he could explain how he escaped the clutches of dozens of Inferi in a potion-induced state of madness, could he?' Harry asked snidely, seized by a rage he could not fully understand himself and was hard to control. Sirius was still his one point of weakness.

'In fact, _sir_, he _did_!' Mrs. Barbary said indignantly.

'Care to fill me in, then?' asked Harry sarcastically, but with a more restrained tone of voice.

The file worker, who had been so amenable only minutes before, now sat up straight and looked at Harry coldly. 'I cannot. This is private information that Mr. Black confided to me under the veil of confidentiality. I cannot pass it on.'

Harry stared at her displeased. 'Fine. Thank you for your answers.' Harry ground out and hurried out of the room before he lost his temper.

He fumed. What was going on here? Was everybody blind to what was really behind the sudden reappearance of 'Regulus Black'? Harry needed someone to talk to, a different face, and advice.

He took the elevator again and went three levels up. When the doors slid open, he entered a corridor that was lined with posters of all kinds of magical creatures. To his right, a bird-like beast with the upper body of a rooster and a tail like that of a lizard or a dragon was pursuing a mouse, but since its eyes were bound (a justified precaution since cockatrices – this creature was one of them – were known for the same deadly stare as their relative, the basilisk), it was not successful. To his left hung the picture of a proud Griffin that spread his wings upon seeing Harry.

The young wizard did not have to pay attention to any room numbers – he knew that he had arrived at his destination when a high voice squeaked 'Harry Potter, sir!' in delight. From an enlarged photo that was pinned to a door, Dobby beamed with large eyes at Harry. Hermione commissioned a painting of him in loving memory of the pioneer of elf emancipation.

Harry knocked curtly and, after hearing a prompt to come in, entered. 'Hermione, I need your help,' he said without any preamble.

'Harry! What's up?' his old schoolmate asked concernedly. 'You don't have any problems with Ginny, have you?' She shifted a few stacks of paper on her desk so they did not have to talk peering over them.

Harry started pacing her room and retelling everything that had happened in the past days. 'I received a letter from Gringotts Monday morning ordering me – mind you ordering! – to visit them in the afternoon and hand over Sirius' things because there'd been a mistake. So I went, thinking that the mistake surely was on their part and things would clear up, but then this stupid goblin just wouldn't listen and forced me! The nerve of them! Some random wizard comes along, claiming he's a Black and everyone buys into his story! Even that witch from the Registry Office just now!' He paused to take a deep breath.

Hermione used the short reprieve. 'Harry, calm down and tell me again,' she said in typical Hermione-exasperation when someone made no sense. 'So you say that there is someone who purports to be a member of the Black Family, did I understand that correctly?'

Harry nodded, still wearing a path into Hermione's carpet. Fortunately, _her_ office was very spacious. 'And they made me hand back everything I had inherited from Sirius! You know I don't care about the money, and the house is basically a dark, filthy place, but still… -It's about everything I've got left of him!'

'Now Harry…,' Hermione broke off and made an impatient sound as her eyes followed the pacing form of her best friend. 'For heaven's sake, sit down, you agitate me!' Despite her prompt for Harry to take a seat, she herself jumped up and retrieved two cups to make them some tea. When she turned back to her desk and saw that Harry still had not followed her 'invitation', she fixed him with a strict glare that soon had Harry change his mind about his preferred position in the room.

Once he was seated and clutched the cup, Hermione proceeded to talk. 'As I was saying, I don't see how that is possible. No matter how close or distant a relative that is supposed to be, he does surely not have a claim to Sirius' belongings. Your godfather has willed _you_ everything he owns, Harry. Any other claims are null and void because of his testament.'

'Yeah,' Harry said edgily because he was unnerved that he had to explain everything _again_ for he had made such a poor job of it the first time, 'I still have the right to everything he owned. No one doubts that-'

'But then-' Hermione wanted to chip in, but Harry overrode her because he was not finished.

'I still have no right to the house, or more precise: to the five 'family estates' all over Europe, because _he_ had no right to them either!'

The frown upon Hermione's face showed her puzzlement. 'How…?'

'Some guy has popped up and claims to be Sirius' brother! And his mother had appointed _him_ her sole heir! Remember, she had disowned Sirius when he was sixteen.'

The puzzled expression on Hermione's face turned into a surprised look of understanding as she sat up straight. 'Oh, you mean someone says he's RAB?'

Harry nodded curtly.

Hermione leaned back in her comfortable seat with the high, upholstered backrest, a look upon her face that Harry knew only too well and told him that he might not like what came next. 'You know,' she began, 'it _could_ be the truth. I mean, no one has ever seen his dead body, have they?'

'No. Only Kreacher saw him in the hands of dozens of Inferi, being dragged under water! Fat chance he got out of that in his state at the time, don't you think?'

Hermione had the grace to look flustered. No matter how much Harry cared about his friend, sometimes it felt good to be able to put her in her place. 'But Kreacher never said he actually saw Regulus _die_ either…,' she fought her ground. 'For all we know, he _could_ have made a miraculous escape.'

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation and jumped up again. 'Great. Really great. Now you're on their side, too!'

'_No_,' Hermione said with emphasis, 'I am merely trying to point out _all_ possibilities!' She huffed, then she said in a softer voice, 'Please let's calm down and talk this through reasonably. I don't mean to say this person _is_ Sirius' brother; I just don't want you to judge rashly.'

Some of Harry's outrage deflated. 'Yeah, I know,' he admitted meekly. 'Sorry, 'Mione.' With that apology, he plumped down on the seat once more.

Hermione pushed the cup further towards him. 'What we need to do, now, is to think of a way to determine this man's true identity. You said something about the registry?'

'Yeah, I just talked to Heather Barbary down in the Registry Office, and she said this would-be Regulus has told her a nice story about how he managed to escape and what he's done since. Oh, and he's apparently got a wand that looks like Regulus Black's old one.'

'He _has_?' Hermione enquired with a tone in her voice that Harry once more did not particularly care for.

'Must have had it made to look convincing. Both Gringotts and the Ministry have examined it,' he supplied succinct. 'Come to think of it, perhaps we could find the one who faked the wand. It must be pretty good work if it managed to fool so many people. Bet there aren't too many wizards around who can do that. Perhaps Mundungus could turn out useful, after all…'

'Harry…,' Hermione raised her voice to what Harry knew would be another crushing of his hopes. 'Those examinations are not just visual ones. They _check_ them for certain signs – the age of the wand, for what kind of spells it's been used, how old the animal was when it gave the ingredient for the core, where the tree grew that gave the wood for the wand. Everything's recorded, Harry. You cannot fake a wand.'

For a moment, Harry slumped down in defeat. Then it hit him. 'Who says that Regulus' wand drowned with him? Perhaps he had lost it on the island, and Kreacher found it and took it back to Grimmauld Place! After Sirius' death, Mundungus must have found it during one of his "visits" when he looked for anything he could turn into coin…'

Hermione looked doubtful. 'That is a possibility…'

'It's as likely as Sirius' brother escaping the Inferi. I figure even much _more_ likely.'

Hermione wrinkled her nose. 'Fine. So we've got two possibilities: either someone's managed to hoodwink both the Ministry of Magic _and_ the sharp eyes of the Gringotts goblins, or Regulus Black is in fact still alive and wants what's rightfully his, now.'

'Not bloody likely,' Harry muttered in a passable imitation of Ron.

'None of them seem to be, but one must be true,' Hermione pointed out. 'So, as I've already said, what can we do to be really sure of the man's identity? He's already delivered a plausible story it seems, and he has presented the wand. What we really would need is someone who knew Regulus Black before he disappeared and could recognise him.'

Harry winced inwardly. That was exactly what Grignok had said – that he had _recognised_ Regulus Black. After talking everything rationally through with Hermione, the truth slowly started to seep into him. As improbable as it sounded, the chance that the man that perpetrated to be Regulus Black was in fact not him was very small. Should Harry not be happy? The fact was that even though he knew that Regulus Black had had a full change of heart and had taken a huge risk to cause a substantial amount of harm to his former master, Harry's ears still rang with Sirius' bitter words about his brother. Of course, Harry did not wish the man to be dead, but he would not carelessly accept that someone claimed to be him just because of any sentimental reasons.

'Harry?' Hermione pulled him out of his stupor.

'Yeah, well, who is still alive from his old crowd?' Harry managed to get back to the question at hand.

'There are people,' Hermione stated. 'I'm sure that we could find out who went to school with him with Professor McGonagall's help' – Harry nodded – 'but I think we can think of some people who were in close contact with him ourselves.'

Harry looked at her clueless.

'It's obvious! Not _all_ of his relatives are gone. I guess since Andromeda was a few years older than him and was blown off the family tree already in the very early seventies, she'll only have known Regulus as a child. But surely Narcissa Malfoy née Black knew him better, _and_ her husband, who, after all, frequented the same dark circles as Regulus did…'

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><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 2<strong>

The wand verification (DH/26) might have been a trick of the goblins, but it is still a plausible idea, which is why I used it. [edit: rubina - you're right; since the trio intended to hoodwink the goblins with Bellatrix' wand, it must be a widely known identification method. Thanks for pointing that out! :)]

The Eurasian Eagle Owl is called 'Bubo bubo' in Latin.

I struggled a little with my version of Harry. I still primarily remember him as the angry boy he was after Sirius' death (smashing Dumbledore's office, raging against Professor Snape etc.), whereas he of course is more mature these days. However, I think that it is reasonable to assume that Sirius might still be a weak spot for him, thus rendering him more emotional and irrational than he otherwise would be. I'm sure I'll manage to make him come back to his proper senses later on. ;)

Thank you again for adding me to your story alerts and favourites, and for your comments. I would **love** to read what you think about the story, even if I haven't revealed the actual plot yet. I dare say this will turn out to be a rather long piece of fiction…

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><p><strong>Thank you for the favs, story alerts, and the reviews!<strong>

**A short outlook:** Part I consists of 3 chapters; Part II will have further eleven chapters and will go back in time, including a somewhat complicated love interest. Part III will return to the present. I develop the story slowly, so don't expect an extreme action adventure.

I'm looking forward to your comments!


	3. Lucius latent

******DISCLAIMER : Some characters and events described in this chapter are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.******

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><p><strong>3: Lucius latent<strong>

Cobby hobbled along the corridor that led from the spacious kitchens to the drawing room, where her master and mistress had elected to have breakfast this morning. It had not lifted the mood of the head of the grand house of Malfoy to find the morning paper missing. In a bout of his admirable temper, he had barked at his unworthy servant so irritably, that said servant had been so clumsy as to sprain his ankle while fleeing the room. Now, he was eager to pacify his rightfully offended master – the owl had finally made its delivery.

His head covered by the large silver tray he held above it, the elf hurried to Mr. Malfoy's side. 'The Friday Prophet, sir,' he squeaked.

'About time.' Lucius Malfoy snatched the paper off the silver platter and perused the front page. His cold eyes skimmed the articles; then he gruffly turned to page two.

The past four years had not been satisfactory for the proud man. He had been defeated by a group of wannabe-wizards in 1996 and had subsequently been incarcerated in Azkaban, a low blow to his high self-esteem. Yet it was not to be the last one. The Dark Lord was not contented with punishments exerted by others; therefore, he had shamelessly sent Lucius' only son and heir to his assets and bloodline into mortal danger by forcing him to plot against the foolhardy, but nevertheless powerful Dumbledore. This had caused Malfoy senior to question his allegiances for the first time.

Lucius understood that he had betrayed the Dark Lord's trust, that he had acted dishonourably by not fulfilling the task that had been appointed to him in the battle at the Department of Mysteries, but why did the Dark Lord wilfully risk the extinction of one of the greatest and oldest lines in pureblood society? Had they not been united in the fight for pureblood supremacy? Still, Draco, spoilt child that he was, although Lucius of course was loath to admit that, had had a chance yet to redeem his family's honour.

His son failed him. And so Lucius, even though he was freed from prison, had had to endure martyrdom beyond reckoning. What a disgrace had it been to be treated like a lesser servant in his own house! How deeply shameful to be rid of his wand in the presence of those that once had looked up to him in awe!

Silently in retrospective, Lucius was wondering sometimes why the Dark Lord had bothered with him at all after robbing him of his wand. What use was a wizard without it? It almost seemed fortunate that the Dark Lord had not seen fit to dispose of the eldest Malfoy. Perhaps he had, despite everything, foreseen a use for his qualities some time in the future?

In the end, it mattered not. Lucius' former master had gone too far. Whatever use he might have had for him, it surely was not fit for a Malfoy, and could in no way have made up for the utter humiliation the fair-haired family had suffered at his hand. Mr and Mrs Malfoy had already silently agreed after the escape of the Potter boy and his friends from Malfoy Manor that they would seize the opportunity should an opening present itself to aid the Order in their aim to vanquish the Dark Lord. They had to ensure themselves, and above all their son, a safe future.

Just when they had thought that everything was over, that opening had presented itself. Lucius had felt a wave of despair wash over him when Narcissa had confirmed that Potter was dead. Their last hope had passed away, or so it looked. Yet then the Dark Lord had been defeated.

At the end of everything, Lucius had been void of any strong emotion. All he felt whilst staring into the Great Hall of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where the dead lay mingled with the wounded and the mourners, a scene of despair spreading out in front of him, was silent relief to know that everything was over and his family had survived, as well as a muted worry about what was going to come, now. Would jurisdiction hold him to account for what Bellatrix had done to Potter's mudblood friend, and for holding Ollivander and the others captive? Surely they would re-apprehend him to serve the rest of the sentence he had received for the Department of Mysteries disaster.

Yet nothing of the kind came to pass. Potter, the fool, in point of fact attested to the Malfoys' renunciation of their previous allegiances and pleaded for them to be freed of all charges!

Lucius had thanked him and silently called him a fool.

However, since then, the Malfoys treaded very carefully. They were painfully aware that the values they upheld were not popular anymore, and they had lost the social standing that would have enabled them to change that. His new position did not please Lucius Malfoy. Many of his old acquaintances were dead or confined to Azkaban for the rest of their lives; there were few people to socialise with. The Ministry, in the process of reformation and headed by a member of Dumbledore's pitiable order, had lost its usefulness for him. What remained were long, eventless days in the Manor or in one of his other estates. The reprieve had even been welcome for a while after the Dark Lord's demise. Yet, lately Lucius felt restless and agitated. He was forty-six, still a young man by wizard reckoning! He needed a task in life, a goal. Even his wife had commenced commenting on his moods of late, which meant they were worse than he wanted to admit to himself. Narcissa was reticent when it came to openly criticising her husband. She knew her place. If she felt it was in order to point his cranky mood out to him, it must be severe.

Lucius Malfoy sipped his strong morning coffee while he leafed through the paper. An article on page five caught his eye.

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><p><em><strong>Hectic movement at Number twelve, Grimmauld Place<strong>_, the headline read.

_As an anonymous informant told Daily Prophet reporter Albert Trebla yesterday evening, grand renovation and home remodelling works are presently undertaken at Number twelve, Grimmauld Place._

_The old townhouse has once been residence of an ancient pureblood family that is extinct since the death of its last descendant, Sirius Black. Black had been falsely accused of betraying Lilly and James Potter's whereabouts to He Who Must Not be Named alias Lord Voldemort and the murder of twelve Muggles and one wizard during the first war (see earlier issues of the Daily Prophet for detailed coverage of the events). After a mysterious escape from Azkaban Prison, Black came to death in the Battle of the Ministry in 1996 before he could be cleared of all charges._

_Number twelve, Grimmauld Place, gained public attention when after the war it was revealed to have served as Headquarters of the famous Order of the Phoenix from some time in 1995 onwards. Protected by a strong Fidelius Charm (a charm that prevents from passing on any information of the place's location), it grew unsafe after the - as we now know – voluntary death of Albus Dumbledore, former headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, owner of an Order of Merlin, First Class, and longstanding Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards as well as Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, in 1997._

_Despite that, Harry Potter and his faithful companions used the house once more as hideout for several weeks during that year. It was here that they planned their risky infiltration of the Ministry of Magic during which they managed to not only obtain one of Lord Voldemort's Horcruxes (a Horcrux is a dark magic object that contains a part of a soul) but also rescue a number of muggleborn witches and wizards from the unjust jurisdiction of the Death Eater regime._

_In his retelling of the tale (see Daily Prophet issue from June 1st 1998), Harry Potter described Grimmauld Place as an unwelcoming, decayed place that was filled with dark magic objects. It seems that now he has decided to have it reworked._

_The question that literally forces itself onto the tip of one's quill, now, is why Mr. Potter, who has finished the Auror training programme a few months ago and is Minister Shacklebolt's right hand in the reformation of the Ministry of Magic, would choose to take care of the house that he inherited from his godfather Sirius Black in 1996 now of all times. The young, highly admired wizard is known to share a roomy flat with his girlfriend Ginny Weasley, famous chaser with the Holyhead Harpies, in Diagon Alley. Speculations have long circulated concerning the question when the young couple will formalise their liaison by entering the state of holy matrimony. Is this new development a sign for further changes? Do Mr Potter and Miss Weasley perhaps even spend thoughts on family planning?_

* * *

><p>The article continued in that fashion for a few further paragraphs, but Lucius Malfoy had read enough for his taste. So, now the Potter boy was settling in at an old, traditional house like Grimmauld Place, undoubtedly turning it upside down with no regard for the old wizard customs that were still inherent in it. He dropped the paper and leaned back in mild disgust. What was Britain degenerating to?<p>

The soft tap of a bird on one of the many French windows that framed the room pulled the Malfoys out of their silence. Since the House Elf had left the room, Narcissa rose to open the window herself. The owl was most likely meant for her anyway – Lucius rarely received letters these days, whereas she still maintained a wide correspondence with a number of important pureblood families all over Europe. These days, her intents were mainly to find a suitable match for Draco, but keeping in contact with similar minds also eased her own loneliness, the thing her husband so suffered from.

'A letter from France?' her husband inquired in an indifferent tone.

Narcissa returned to the table while unrolling the small piece of parchment. Her fine eyebrows rose in a look of mild surprise as she sat down, her eyes perusing the page. 'No,' she answered eventually, 'it is a letter from Mr Potter.' Ever since their virtual tête à tête in the Forbidden Forrest, Lucius' wife chose to refer to the boy with a carefully polite address, giving credit to the kindness he had imparted on them. He knew that Narcissa had not changed her opinion about the young wizard's lack of social mannerisms, she merely did what, loath as Lucius was to admit it, was best in their situation. She adapted her behaviour to be in accord with the present public opinion, the aforementioned event making the deed admittedly easier for her. Secretly, Lucius appreciated the virtuousness of his wife. She did what he could not. His pride had been hurt too deeply to just let it go and start over. Not if it meant to humbly become 'friends' with the people that threatened to expel every single thing from this society that Lucius valued most.

'Potter? What does _he_ want from us?' Malfoy senior had always been glad not to be bothered by the upstart.

His wife passed him the letter. 'He asks for permission to visit us.'

Lucius peered disbelievingly at his wife for a moment. Then he dropped his gaze to the parchment. Indeed, there, in spidery handwriting, Harry Potter had signed his name under the curt enquiry to be allowed to Floo to the Manor late this afternoon.

'Well,' he collected himself, 'since this is expressly addressed to you…' He handed the letter back.

Narcissa rose and went over to her escritoire, where she retrieved one of her finely decorated sheets of notepaper – a stark contrast to the cheap parchment that Potter had used – and wrote the answer that she fastened to the still waiting owl.

'I assume you have agreed?'

'Offending Harry Potter would hardly be prudent.' Of course, Lucius knew that there was more going on in the clever mind of his wife, but if she chose not to relate it to him, she had her reasons.

* * *

><p>.~*~.<p>

* * *

><p>Lucius had temporarily contemplated to withdraw to his study while Potter pranced – or more likely: stumbled – over the crème-coloured onyx marble of the entrance hall and the corridors of Malfoy Manor to eventually slouch in one of the high-backed mahogany armchairs in the drawing room or the library. He almost felt sorry that the young man had had no parents to teach him some manners when he thought about his entire lack thereof. Almost.<p>

In the end, Lucius had decided in favour of joining his wife. He was going to finally overcome his reluctance and follow his own advice that he had given his son at a very early age already – that it was not prudent to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of their kind regarded him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear… -that carried more truth than ever. Lucius had licked the wounds of his pride for two years, now it was time to find back to his old posture, even though he was not yet sure how to achieve that under the new circumstances.

The young Mr Potter did – as expected – show no grace as he exited the large fireplace in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. Out of the corner of his eye, Lucius saw one of the house elves – apart from his personal elf's he had never cared to learn their names, that was Narcissa's field of responsibility – frown and hurry off to fetch dust pan and brush to render the marble soot-free again.

Potter shook hands with Narcissa; Lucius merely inclined his head.

'Mr Malfoy,' he was greeted wearily.

'Shall we move to the drawing room?' Narcissa proposed and motioned for Potter to join her. 'I have ordered Swinty to serve tea.' She went ahead, Potter followed her, and Lucius moved in their wake. He could see that Potter was uncomfortable in his presence by the stiff way in which he walked.

They seated themselves and Narcissa poured them tea into the finest china. How would Potter react if he knew that two years ago, the Dark Lord had sat in the same place, drinking from the same tableware? Perhaps he _was_ aware – after all, he had 'visited' at the time.

'May we enquire as to the purpose of your visit, Mr Potter?' Lucius finally prompted the young wizard to state his business.

'Uhm, yes of course,' Potter stuttered inarticulately. 'I sort of have a problem that I hoped you could help me with.'

Lucius raised a sharply arched brow. So now his fame had truly risen to the boy's head. What made him think he had the right to ask for favours?

'We will need more details to determine if we are able to assist you,' Narcissa said in contrast to her husband's silent indignation, once more displaying her diplomatic skills.

'It… It's about your cousin. Regulus Black.'

Narcissa allowed herself a look of mild surprise. 'Regulus? What problem could you have that involves him? Did you not say yourself in the Daily Prophet that he was dead?'

'That's it! He clearly is, but someone runs around claiming he is Regulus! I can't tell how he does it, but he manages to convince! I was hoping that you as people who have known the real Regulus could take a look at this man and testify that he's an impostor.'

Lucius took a biscuit, dipped it into his tea and savoured its taste. 'If I may, I am wondering why _you_ are taking an interest in the matter.'

'Because Sirius was my godfather, and I don't want to see his inheritance in the hands of a cheat!' said the young 'hero' in indignation.

'Ah,' Lucius said knowledgeably and leaned back with his teacup in his hand. 'You were his heir, were you not?' Of course, Malfoy senior knew that only too well, but feigning disinterest had its advantages.

Potter breathed in deeply and showed a better control of his temper when he replied in a calmer tone, 'That's not the point. I don't need my godfather's money. I just do not want to see his inheritance in the hands of someone who did not car about him.' He held Lucius' gaze.

'Yet that cannot happen in any case, can it?' Narcissa contributed to the conversation, the questioning tone of her voice directed at her husband who had more detailed knowledge of legal affairs than she had. 'There are infallible means to determine a person's right to an inheritance, after all.'

Lucius nodded in agreement.

Potter, however, shook his head. 'I told you, he has hoodwinked everyone. He must have gotten hold of Regulus' wand, somehow, and must have thought of a very good story to explain how he managed to stay alive – he fooled both Gringotts and the Ministry!' He emptied his cup with one big gulp and put it down on its delicate saucer.

'The wand verification is not what I meant,' she said. 'The authorities may verify whomever they think is Regulus, but that will not make him the true heir. The only foolproof method is to ask the house elves that belong to the assets.'

Lucius smirked. House elves!

Potter's face in contrast lightened up like the face of a child at the sight of the year's pile of Christmas presents.

How could he have forgotten that? It was, after all, how Dumbledore had Harry test if he truly was Sirius' rightful heir only weeks after his godfather's death! There it was, the proof! 'You're right! Regulus' old elf, Kreacher, he wanted to join you after Sirius' death, thought you were his true masters' – in truth, the creature had wanted to kiss Bellatrix Lestrange's feet, but Harry thought it was better not to mention the name of Mrs Malfoy's sister – ', but he couldn't when I forbid it. I sent him off to work at Hogwarts instead and he was forced to do what I told him! That proves it! Regulus can't be alive, can he? Or else, Kreacher would neither have listened to me nor to Sirius!'

'Have you seen this man already?' Lucius was interested to learn.

Potter shook his head. 'He's always a step ahead of me. But he shouldn't be too hard to find. He seems eager to move into Grimmauld Place as fast as possible. The craftswizards were hired the same day that Gringotts forced me to hand back the key to the house.'

That explained the newspaper report, Lucius combined. However, they had now proven already that Regulus was without any doubt deceased; there was no reason for Potter to linger. Lucius rose and held out his hand. 'Mr. Potter.'

Befuddled, the young wizard stood up as well and, after some weary hesitation, briefly shook his hand.

'My wife and I are _delighted_ to have been of assistance to you. Now that you know how to prove your point to the Ministry, I do not think you have any further need of it,' said the master of the manor in answer to his guest's facial expression.

'Right,' Potter murmured and said a quick good-bye before a house elf guided him back to the floo.

* * *

><p>.~*~.<p>

* * *

><p>The evening of the following day, a white-blond wizard sat in front of a flickering fire, swivelling a glass of fine wine in his left hand. Initially, Lucius had regarded the matter as settled. Someone had tried to hoodwink Potter. That was it. What happened now, was of no interest to him. However, over the course of the day, his mind had continually reeled back to the previous afternoon's conversation.<p>

Who was so bold as to impersonate Regulus Black, of all people? A former Death Eater that had betrayed the Dark Lord and was now a celebrated war hero! And in this manner! An impostor that moved into Number twelve, Grimmauld Place – that did not make any sense.

A log slipped off the pile in the fireplace and set off a stream of sparkles.

With a resolute thud, Lucius Malfoy placed his glass on the table beside his armchair and rose. 'Cobby!'

The house elf appeared immediately and bowed low.

'Bring my travelling cloak,' his master commanded while he walked towards the entrance hall. Once he was properly dressed and had taken care of the faint trace of alcohol that permeated his breath with a quick spell, he stepped outside and Apparated.

Thanks to Potter's new found love for the press, all of Wizarding Britain knew where the old Black townhouse and former seat of the Order of the Phoenix was situated. With his interview, the Fidelius Charm that good old Dumbledore had placed on it had lost its effect.

Mr Malfoy had Apparated to a dark, not very welcoming side alley that led off Grimmauld Square the way he had always done in his younger years when visiting one of the Black Family's social events. When he stepped up the street and halted in front of the hedge between Numbers eleven and thirteen, Number twelve immediately started to push its way into being. This concealment had been placed upon the house in the time of Orion Black and had nothing to do with Dumbledore's added charms. It was a display of the enormous wealth of the Black Family that they had been able to afford this complete removal of any trace of their existence from the Muggle world as well as a testimony of how important it was in their esteem to distance themselves as far as possible from their unworthy neighbours. The Black Family was one of the purest and proudest wizarding families known in all of Europe, and Lucius Malfoy had been delighted to find a perfect match in Narcissa. He had been revolted at the sight of the shabby state in which the house had been on the photographs that had accompanied Potter's lengthy interview.

Now, however, the head of the Malfoy Family was positively surprised by the sight that greeted him. Were the houses in the neighbourhood grey and shabby, Number twelve's fortified lower front was painted in a fresh white and the finer brick slip cladding of the upper storeys had been renewed. Its roof was still in need of repair, but its entrance had been replaced with a finely carved door in dark green that was surrounded by a white frame that gave the whole place a more welcoming look than it had ever held as long as Lucius Malfoy had known it.

He took the worn steps and seized the silver doorknocker. The serpents that formed it looked at him suspiciously, but refrained from biting him when they spotted the Malfoy signet ring that adorned his hand. Two brisk knocks; then the visitor took a step back and waited, mildly curious as to who would greet him.

After a moment's wait, the door opened a crack and an old house elf peered grimly up at him. However, his face lit up an instant later, and the door was opened wider. 'Master Malfoy!' He stepped aside and motioned for the guest to enter. 'Master Regulus is in the library, if you would follow me,' the elf said in a dark, raspy voice. Did he not know this creature? Was that not the very elf that had supplied Narcissa with insider information of the Order? Regulus' old elf? You could never quite know with these creatures. One looked like the other. And yet, Lucius believed that he recognised this particular specimen due to its outstandingly ghastly appearance.

That would mean… Lucius Malfoy's interest peaked. Could it be?

The hallway was covered with a tapestry in mint green that was permeated with fine silver ornaments that swirled around every of the recently replaced lamps. More noticeable were the glass blocks that sat in the walls to both sides of the hallway in irregular intervals and permitted daylight to trickle into what before had been a dark, intimidating place. All in all, it seemed, the new owner of the house made a point of giving it a lighter, friendlier atmosphere. Nevertheless, all the old paintings of Black ancestors still adorned the walls (some apparently in new frames), and the reworked lamps still held their serpentine ornaments.

Led by the elf, Lucius Malfoy reached the end of the hallway, where a set of ebony doors to the right formed the entrance to the library that once had held a famed collection of books on dark magic. Mr Malfoy could only guess at the havoc the Order had wreaked in it.

The elf knocked and entered the room while he waited outside. From his place, he could look up the stairs that still looked old and worn, yet the upper storeys lay in darkness. He took a deep breath and checked that his clothes were in order; then the heavy wooden doors swung open.

Lucius Malfoy's eyes widened fleetingly as their gaze fell upon his host. Slightly smaller than him, but well built and clad predominantly in black, there stood without any doubt the very person he had not expected to encounter this evening – or ever again. Lucius eyed him appraisingly, comparing his dim memories of a slight, quiet adolescent with the man that stood before him. He was not quite prepared for the situation. At the same time, he was given a likewise scrutiny by his host.

It took Regulus Black a moment to make up his mind. Then he broke out into a hesitant, reserved smile and extended his hand. 'Cousin,' he greeted him in a firm voice that spoke of a confident, controlled character – a definite difference to the Regulus that Lucius remembered. Yet who would expect to find a person unchanged after over twenty years?

They shook hands, their eyes still carefully surveying each other. 'I confess you have taken me off guard with your visit,' Regulus Black went on. 'I was not expecting any guests this soon.'

Lucius graced him with a mocking smile of his own. 'Despite the great stir you caused in the past week? That is a little naïve.'

'Perhaps so,' Mr. Black conceded with a rueful smile, his tone of voice indicating that he was not perturbed by his miscalculation. He fished with his fingers in an inner pocket of his robe and pulled a silver pocket watch out of it. 'I fear you have caught me in a position that leaves me unable to entertain you. I neither have the time nor the means' – with a movement of his eyes he indicated the stated of the house – 'to welcome you as the situation requires. I need to be back at work in a few minutes.'

Lucius noticed that the other men was clad in fire-repelling garments. He did not mind being temporarily turned away. He had been caught off guard himself, after all. 'What about lunch tomorrow at the Manor?' Lucius proposed, eager to learn more of the history of his lost cousin. If he truly returned to Britain that opened many potential opportunities for him…

Regulus Black shook his head. 'I cannot treat you so impolitely and then exploit your hospitality,' he turned Lucius' offer down. It was, of course, a diplomatic way of hiding his true reasons for not accepting the invitation. Malfoy senior was not pleased, but his cousin's subsequent proposal appeased him. 'When I explored Diagon Alley a few days ago, I noticed a very small but exquisite place for the more select taste, right next to Madame Malkin's. Let me treat you to lunch there.'

'Very well,' Lucius replied with a mild act of reluctance. 'Tomorrow at twelve o' clock?'

The other man inclined his head and offered his cousin his hand as in parting. He had a firm handshake. 'You can use the fireplace in the library, if you wish,' he annotated.

In light of the late hour and his alcohol consumption earlier, the lord of Malfoy Manor indeed welcomed the opportunity that saved him from the necessity of a second Apparation. Not that he would have admitted that. 'How have you found your parental home? With all these…' – Lucius checked his impulse to use an unflattering name and settled for a neutral term – 'strangers having walked in and out of this place in the past years, I was concerned they might not treat the family's heirlooms with the bidden respect.'

Cool grey eyes watched the owner of the house carefully as they entered the library. His reaction might reveal much about his sentiments. A twitching muscle that spoke of his tension or a too easy answer that said he had not paid attention to this matter.

Regulus, however, had perfected the Slytherin game of masks and veils and gave away nothing. 'A few items have disappeared, but that is nothing against the regrettable state the house is in,' he answered neutrally while holding a bowl of floo powder out to Lucius.

'Indeed,' Lucius replied and took a handful of the transportation agent. He recognised when his opponent was too vigilant to lure him out. 'Until tomorrow,' he said, activated the link to his home, and stepped into the flames.

Regulus Arcturus Black alias Régis Mørkskov took a controlled, deep breath while staring at the flames as thes turned from green back to their natural golden colour. So, it had commenced.

**- End of Part 1 -**

* * *

><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 4<strong>

I was pondering for some time how Lucius Malfoy would act in the post-war society. Would he try to continue the way he always had, the kraken that had a tentacle extended into every matter of societal importance? Would he even be able to maintain this position, marked by his former allegiances as he is? Malfoy's influence sprung greatly from his wealth and the corruption within the Ministry. Now, however, there is an incorruptible man holding the position of Minister for Magic, and said man reforms the Ministry in ways that surely make it harder for Lucius to bribe influential people. Furthermore, the old pureblood beliefs that I am sure he still upholds, carry less and less weight in wizarding society. I could imagine that he feels almost like an outcast, offended by the utter disregard of his person and withdrawing to some degree because he cannot find a place in this new society. Think of the picture of the Malfoys huddled into a corner in the Great Hall at the end of the Final Battle…

cob = hazelnut

_**A **__**quote **__**from **__**Grangerous:**_ 'Did you ever wonder what I do right after posting the chapter each Wednesday afternoon? Well, I write. In fact, the biggest chunk of writing time each week happens right after I post the chapter because that's the point that I'm most obsessed with the story. I check the hits, I wait eagerly for reviews, and I sit here at my laptop in a minor frenzy and hope that people are not too disappointed. Now, you might think that it would be a distraction to get reviews then, but the reverse is true: they let me know whether people are interested in reading more and thus I produce more. Every review, no matter when it comes in the week, reminds me of the story and pushes me back towards writing it with a gently nudge.'

Perfectly true.


	4. First sight

**Disclaimer: The world in which this is set is influened by J. Rowling. I make no financial profit of the story.**

Warning: original characters ahead.**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Part II: Age of Innocence<strong>

**4: First sight**

* * *

><p><em>(Several years earlier - May 1991)<strong><br>**_

Viola washed a cloth in a bowl of cool water, the light from the candles on the nightstand shimmering on its surface. She turned to the woman on the bed whose face was contorted in pain and whose dark locks that usually resembled so very much her own presently clang to the woman's sweaty skin. Brushing them gently away, Viola carefully placed the cool cloth on the hot forehead. The tension on her mother's face eased a little.

With a crash the door to the room was thrown open and the old house elf hurried in, tailed by two men. 'The mediwizard has arrived, mistress,' the bent being croaked. The girl had never grown warm with it. Behind the elf, the master of the house entered the room, his gaze falling on his daughter and darkening. With a curt nod, he ordered her out. 'Stop acting like a house elf!' he hissed when she passed him.

The door fell into its lock behind her, shutting her out. All she could hear were her mother's whimpers, while the old grandfather clock ticked away and she sat on the floor, examining the many cracks and wormholes in the worn wooden boards.

She was home during the Christmas holidays, but they were not festive. Her elder sister was confined to her room to learn for her sixth year exams, and her mother was fighting with severe cramps in the late phase of her… -well, Viola was at a loss when she tried to determine how many times her mother had carried a child already.

The piercing scream of a baby wrenched her out of her thoughts. Relief flooded through her body. She jumped up, but immediately stopped herself from bursting into the room, knowing that her father would be displeased by such immature behaviour. The girl strained her ears to hear anything else from within, but there was nothing but a low murmur that mingled with the cries of her newborn sibling. With a nagging urgency one question revolved in her mind: was it a boy or a girl?

It was a dark cloud that hung over their family ever since Viola could remember. Her mother was a frail, sensitive woman, not unlike herself, and the main purpose of her life was to give birth to a healthy male heir. So far, she had failed. Two children she had lost in the last years since Viola was old enough to notice what was happening with her mother. Yet now the sound of the baby's voice raised her hopes.

A few minutes later, the door was wrenched open. Her father looked down on her. 'Fetch your sister,' he ordered curtly.

Barely a minute later, her two years older sister knocked timidly on the door. Viola peered sideways past her into the room as the door was opened by the mediwizard. Her mother lay motionless in the bed, perhaps asleep. Beside her stood a wooden crib. And beside that crib stood their father. 'Greet your brother.'

Viola's face lit up, and she locked eyes with her sister, the two girls rejoicing silently.

* * *

><p>Viola spent the rest of her holidays at the bedside of her mother. She was weak, fighting a fever. It was only the day before Viola and her sister had to go back to school that her mother's health improved somewhat. The three females ate some light soup and a bit of toast together in the bedroom, then the two girls floo'ed to Beauxbatons.<p>

* * *

><p>When they returned home for the Easter weekend, there lay a brooding silence over the house. 'Mor!' called Viola after her mother. Her sister, Agnetha (she had been named after their grandmother), climbed the stairs to her room and knocked at the door. When there was no reply, she pressed her ear against the dark wood to listen. Perceiving no sound, she quietly pushed it open. Resigned, she closed it again and looked down to Viola, shaking her head.<p>

She descended the stairs and whispered, 'There was no crib…' At those words, Viola's stomach convulsed. The sisters gazed at each other, anxious looks in their eyes. Together they moved through the lower parts of the house, until eventually they found their mother in a rocking chair in the garden. Despite the warm spring sun, she was enveloped in a thick blanket.

'Mor?' Agnetha addressed her, crouching down in front of her.

Their mother smiled at the sight of her eldest child and placed a hand lovingly on her cheek. Her face was pale, and her smile seemed forced, lifeless. It suddenly struck Viola that for a woman of her age, her mother's face was unusually lined.

'Where is father?' enquired Agnetha.

Their mother's smile vanished. The slender woman withdrew her hand and looked with a pained expression on her face to the old, windswept birch that stood at the end of the garden. 'I fear your father has deserted us.'

_Deserted._ The word struck Viola with a cold fierceness. Gone. For good.

'Has he taken the little one?' Agnetha asked.

The woman in the rocking chair shook her head almost imperceptibly. 'Your brother has died a week ago. Cot death.' She said this quietly, derive of any emotion, sounding defeated. Then she added, 'The mediwizard said that I could not have any more children. That the past pregnancies had put too much strain on my body. You know how much your father wanted a son…'

The frail woman tucked on her blanket to envelop herself more tightly in it in search for comfort. Her girls snuggled up to her. They were on their own, now.

* * *

><p><strong>.~*~.<strong>

* * *

><p>It was late in May, and Viola sat in a meadow near the school. In contrast to other schools which were more restrictive, Beauxbatons allowed its pupils to wander about freely each Saturday afternoon, and the fourteen year old used this opportunity whenever the weather allowed it to practice before she went into town to have her violin lessons. Inside the school, she always feared someone would walk in on her when she sought out an unused classroom or toilet to shape up her play, therefore the weekly excursions were a treasured reprieve for her.<p>

Presently, she was playing a low, melancholic tune that had been composed by an unknown wizard at the end of the sixteenth century. It was one of her favourites of late. It reflected how she felt inside – lost and uncertain. They had had no word of her father's whereabouts. Her mother had written the two sisters the previous week, informing them that she had found a part-time occupation in the apothecary of their town. Viola had been delighted, thinking (and saying it) that everything was going to work out in the end, but her elder sister had not been so certain. She had said a part-time job as unskilled employee was not going to be enough to sustain three people. Perhaps their father had left them some savings?

The girl played the last notes, slowly diving out of the depths of her thoughts. The sudden deep sound of clapping hands made her startle violently and turn around to see who had snuck up on her. Viola had to screw up her eyes to see the figure in the bright sunlight. It was a man clad in dark clothes who stood a dozen feet away from her, forming a stark contrast with the flower-covered meadow and the bright blue sky. When her eyes had adjusted, she saw his face, however, that looked at her benignly.

'You play beautifully,' the man commended her with a soft, deep voice.

Viola averted her eyes and rose timidly to her feet. 'Thank you.' She carefully placed her old violin back in its case. The girl was slightly uncomfortable in the presence of the stranger. She had been taught to keep her distance from unknown people, especially men. Her father had always made a point of reprimanding her for mingling with 'lesser people'. 'I need to go to my lesson, now,' she informed the stranger.

'In Mytèrle?' enquired he.

Viola inclined her head reluctantly.

'I am headed in the same direction for a meeting. Would you care for my company?' the stranger proposed.

Finding no reason to deny him that politeness would have allowed her to voice, Viola shook her head.

She trod along beside her silent companion, glancing at him sideways to get a better impression of him. He seemed quite tall to her. He was not nearly as tall as Madame Maxime, one of her teachers, but certainly taller than her father, and he looked… as if he was not an academic but a more 'active' man, the girl decided. Her mind provided her with a wide variety of possible occupations that would explain his appearance. Apart from his robust clothes, he also wore his light brown hair long, partly falling in wild waves around his face, partly tied together in a tail, and his mouth was surrounded by a circle beard. Despite this unconventional appearance, he did not look unkempt. On the contrary.

'How long have you been playing?' he startled her out of her contemplation of his face, his grey eyes turning away from the distant countryside they had been perusing and settling on her face instead.

'For six years,' she answered and brushed her hair behind her ear self-consciously. After that, she hugged her violin case close to her chest. Viola was not used to drawing attention to herself.

'And you are how old, now?'

'Fourteen.' He in turn looked about twice her age.

'What's your name?'

'Viola. Viola Søgaard. And you?' she returned the enquiry to interrupt the stranger's stream of questions that made her even more uncomfortable. Why should he take such an interest in a random girl?

'Régis is my name, but I am usually called Reg,' the man answered. They left the meadow and stepped onto the road.

For a while, they walked in silence again. 'Reg' walked on the right side, close to the brim of the meadow that was cut in half by the path, and every once in a while picking a flower as he walked. Viola went on the left side and wondered about her companion. His appearance seemed entirely out of place in this landscape. After some hesitation, she plucked up the courage to initiate some further talk to unravel the mystery of his presence. 'Where are you coming from that you came by my hiding place? Usually I'm all by myself here,' she asked shily, feeling bold.

He motioned with his head toward the big manor house that rested on a distant hill, accompanied by two outbuildings. The Beauxbatons Academy had been relocated a century ago because the ancient castle in which it previously had resided had been haunted by vile ghosts that had resisted every attempt to drive them out. 'I delivered something to your potions teacher.'

'Ingredients?'

Reg nodded.

'Are you a Herbologist?' Viola guessed in the face of his growing bouquet.

The man smiled wrily while bending down to pluck a wild, still green wheat blade to add it to his collection of white-blossomed yarrow and red-blossomed poppy. Dimples appeared around his mouth, softening his features once more that otherwise seemed rather distant. 'No.'

'No plants?'

His smile spread to his eyes. There was something sly in them. 'No plants.'

'Which leaves ingredients from animals.'

Reg added a couple of corn flowers to his bucket and rose again so they could move on. 'That seems an accurate deduction,' he answered with mild amusement. He arranged the flowers. 'What about you? Do you only play for bees and ants or is there a chance of admiring your virtuous talent during a regular concert?'

Heat rose to Viola's cheeks. 'I'm not nearly good enough for that!'

'I beg to differ,' Reg contradicted her in his relaxed, calm manner. 'I attend musical performances as often as my tight schedule allows me, which renders me quite capable of judging whether I am listening to something worthwhile, and I i_did_/i enjoy what met my ears when I walked past your "hiding place". Although I daresay your instrument has seen better days.'

Viola looked away in embarrassment, both at his praise of her play and critique of her violin. Eventually she replied to the letter, feeling on firmer ground there. 'Yes. It is… old.' Of course she knew that age was not necessarily a sign of bad shape for an instrument. On the contrary, some of the best instruments had been fabricated centuries ago and were played by the most successful musicians these days. Her violin, however, was merely a cheap, worn copy made at the beginning of the century and acquired for a very low price. Her mother had enabled Viola to follow her dearest wish against the will of her father – the only time that the girl could remember her mother to openly oppose her husband.

The unlikely pair finally drew closer to the town. Mystèrle was part of one of four Muggle-free areas in France, surrounded by an enchanted wall whose gates only opened to magical folk. When they had stepped onto the cobblestone pavement, Viola's companion halted in his tracks. 'Where are you headed?'

Viola pointed to the right. 'To Mademoiselle Julie in the Rue d'Oona.'

'In this case, I fear, our ways part here. My client waits in the Chaudron de sorcièrs.' He held the bouquet out to her with a wink and an impish smile.

The girl returned his smile, secretly happy about their encounter, and stretched out her thin arm to accept the flowers.

'It would be a pleasure to hear you play again some time in the future. Until then…' Régis gave her the hint of a bow and walked off.

Viola looked after him. His heels reverberated hard on the pavement until he disappeared behind a corner. Her heart beat faster for some time after he'd gone.

The bell of a nearby clock tower pulled her forcefully out of her reverie, and she hurried along.

* * *

><p>.~*~.<p>

* * *

><p>It was a day in June, and Viola sat at her desk in the room that she shared with two other girls at Beauxbatons. The late afternoon sun flooded the room with light, and a soft breeze that flowed in through the open window made the heat more bearable. The potions annual exam was due the next day, and she was once more going over all the brews the curriculum had included.<p>

Over the last weeks, she had wondered whenever she had chopped flobberworms or used powdered unicorn horn if this had been part of the stranger's delivery. For two weeks she had smiled each morning when waking up at the sight of the flowers he had given her. They had stood in a vase on her bedside table, until eventually they had withered. Adults rarely granted Viola their attention, especially not men. After all, she was only the second daughter of an impoverished pureblood that had eventually ruined their family's reputation for good by deserting them. That Reg had been so interested in her, had complimented her, had even called her talented, that had left a deep impression on the fourteen year old.

Suddenly, the girl grew aware of the sound of fluttering wings. When she turned around, she found two owls perched on the foot end of her bed, a package lying behind them on the coverlet.

With a puzzled frown, Viola rose from her chair. Before her father had left, her mother had sometimes sent them self-baked biscuits when she had had some money left to pay the owl rental service, but these days she was too busy. Viola could think of no one else who would send her anything, least of all a package.

One of the owls, a gigantic eagle owl with a superior look about it, hooted impatiently to warn that Viola should hurry up. She lifted the package out of the net that had been mounted between the owls. Immediately, the birds took flight again.

Viola eyed up the parcel. It was asymmetric, its shape hard to name, and it was carefully wrapped in several layers of brown paper that – she could tell from their sheen – had been spelled to repel rain. A small label attached to it held her name. She wasn't familiar with the handwriting. The package had a satisfying weight in the little girl's hands, heightening her eagerness to find out what was inside. Shaking the parcel gave her no additional clues, nor did bringing it up to her nose to smell it.

Eventually, Viola decided to open it. Meticulously trying to keep the wrapping as intact as possible, she removed one layer after the other, until the last pieces of paper fell away. Her eyes widened. It could not be! How? Who?

There lay a violin case on her bed, its polished black leather surface gleaming in the sunlight. It was closed by several old silver clasps adorned with fine rune carvings. Her hands trembling, Viola fumbled to open them, yet a brush of her fingertips sufficed. The runes seemed to come alive. They glowed and moved about, and the case opened of its own accord with an almost inaudible click.

Viola's breath caught at the sight of the case's content. Bedded on sky blue satin, there was a gleaming violin. With only the tip of one finger, she brushed over the highly polished wood in deep admiration and awe. It was perfect. Not a single scratch. For a moment, she sat and raked her eyes over it in silent admiration.

Then her eyes started to search for a note. All that she found was the authenticity certificate, identifying the instrument as newly manufactured by Sirenia Fidelio, who was renowned to be the best instrument maker in two centuries. Admittedly, there were not many instrument makers amongst the wizards, yet magically manufactured instruments were finer than Muggle handiwork, and Mrs. Fidelio used only the best quality of unicorn and veela hair for the strings.

Viola sank down onto the bed beside the violin case, looking at it forlornly, her pulse resonating hard in her body. What was she to do? She could not just keep such a valuable present, could she? The girl carefully closed the lit again, wrapped the paper around the case and hurried out of the room to seek out her sister.

'Agnetha,' she peeked through a gap in her sister's door. The sixth and seventh year students lived in the outbuildings, each occupying a small room of their own to be able to fully concentrate on their exam preparations.

'You are sent by the gods!' the blonde, young woman exclaimed. 'You _need_ to help me with Herbology! Here's the book – give me the names of plants and check if I give you the right properties.' As she held out the book, her eyes fell on the badly wrapped package that her younger sister held tightly to her chest. 'What's this?'

'I received this a few minutes ago. But I don't know why…,' Viola found it hard to speak coherently. The surprise package had entirely overwhelmed her.

Agnetha, who was a straight forward person, attacking everything with a cool rationale, took the parcel out of her little sister's arms and opened it once more. The two girls examined the gift. 'Well, it _is_ addressed to you…' Agnetha said in the end. That was an odd comment. Viola wondered what she meant by that.

Her sister sighed. 'Lala,' that was how she had called her smaller sister when she had been born and she herself had only been two years old, and the nickname had stuck, 'you do know that we don't have much money anymore, don't you?'

'We never did. What do you mean? I don't think I have to pay for this. It's a present, isn't it? I just don't know who has so much money and would spend it on me…'

Agnetha shook her head sadly. 'I don't mean that violin, Lala. I am talking about your lessons. Mor wrote me yesterday. She says she can't afford them any longer. The next week's lesson was paid in advance, but after that…' She looked at her dark-haired, smaller sister with regret. 'I'm sorry. I know how much your music means to you.'

Viola felt slightly queasy. Her gaze rested on the precious instrument. 'Perhaps I could sell my old violin…?' she suggested.

'You won't get much for that. If you sold this one, however…'

Viola's gaze shot up.

'A Fidelio violin must be worth hundreds of Galleons, especially since Sirenia Fidelio has died last week. They'll outbid each other to get hold of this. It's only until I can marry Søren. Everything will improve after my wedding…' Agnetha was betrothed to the heir of a moderately wealthy pureblood family.

A bolt shot through Viola's body at the thought of giving this precious instrument away. She jumped up and pulled her gift close to her. 'No. I'd rather practice a year on my own than just give this away. I'll never be able to afford something like this! It was a present; it must carry a meaning!' With that, she rushed out of the room again, leaving her puzzled and worried sister to deal with Herbology on her own.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Notes concerning chapter 5<strong>_

On Viola: I chose that name because I wanted it to bear a musical reference. It is also a rather old, yet beautiful, female name. Additionally, it bares semblance to 'vial', a small glass vessel – fragile, lucent, yet holding an unknown fluid… Viola is a fragile, sensitive, innocent young woman, but there is a certain depth to her, a sweet melancholy, that attracts Regulus.

Mor = mom, mother

Fleur mentioned once that the examinations that equal the O.W.L.s are held after sixth year at Beauxbatons

**Merry Christmas to you all!**

Reviews = love.


	5. On probation

****DISCLAIMER : The characters and some events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.****

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><p><strong>5: On probation<strong>

****_(July 1991)_

Even though he had played it cool in front of Bill and his parents, now that he let go of the portkey and sailed towards the ground, his stomach fluttered quite uncomfortably. It was an evening in the fourth week of July, and he had received his N.E.W.T. results just in time – this morning, in fact – for his job interview. He landed in a meadow, not far from several small houses that formed something like a settlement in a valley of what he guessed to be the Carpathian Mountains. Shouldering his bag and holding his broom in one hand (a new one would be the first thing he bought if he got the job), he trod towards two men who leaned lazily against a fence and enjoyed their evening pipe. 'Evenin',' he greeted them. 'Can you tell me where I find Régis' office?'

The guys stared at him listlessly.

A couple of other people came down the narrow path that stringed the houses loosely together. Amongst them was a young bloke that carried the same equipment that he had with him. Another candidate? –Most likely.

He had heard of the dragon reservation from a friend of his and had sent a motivation letter together with his O.W.L. results to the address he had been given without knowing if they were even looking for knew people. It had mostly been an escape-attempt, trying to flee the plans his mother was making for him. They included a nice, comfortable office job at the Ministry and quite possibly a wife and children in the not too far future, not to forget a new hair cut. No, he really was not made for that. He would rather have his butt grilled by dragon breath than place it on a nice, comfy cushion eight hours the day, five days the week, forty-nine weeks the year for the next decades to come.

The men had drawn level with him, and one of them halted right in front of the young man. 'Charlie Weasley, I take it?'

'Yup. Nice to meet you, sir.' He held out his hand, which the other man took while giving him the once-over. The guy had a firm grip that he matched. Charly was glad he had managed to convince his mother to buy him some fire-resistant clothes as a reward for his N.E.W.T. results. Everyone but the other young bloke wore them.

'Scratch that _sir_ and mount your broom,' answered the bearded man that wore his shoulder-length hair in a tight ponytail. 'I'm Reg; the guy in the green robes is the second applicant. Do yourselves a favour and don't even start contesting each other. We're looking for good men, and if we get two at once we won't complain. To see what you've got, you're gonna take turns replacing me during this night's first shift while I'm keeping a close eye on you. Questions?'

Wow. That guy did not waste time. Charlie shook his head in answer and got onto his broom. They flew over a mountain toward a plateau. Charlie could feel the tingling of strong magic. A strong hand landed on his shoulder and he looked beside him to see the no-nonsense guy keep level with him. Gazing behind him, he saw someone else do the same with the second candidate, and then he felt magic sweep over him. Realisation hit him – they had just flown into heavily warded dragon area, and only by being physically connected to authorised personnel had they been allowed to pass through. Anticipation rose.

They landed between trees. 'Okay, Weasley, you go first. Of course, we don't expect you to be a pro. We just want to see how good your instincts are, and how quickly you're adapting. Keep close to Gerd here,' – he patted a tall man with a round but serious face, broad shoulders, and a nice beer belly on the back -, 'and listen to _every_ word he says. You get me?'

Charlie nodded, locking eyes both with Reg as well as with his instructor for the night.

'Well then,' Reg said while he red the time on a pocket watch that seemed a little quaint on a man like him, 'let's not keep the others waiting.'

While they went on by foot, Gerd walked beside Charlie and filled him in. 'We go to a girl, now,' he said in heavily accented (German, if Charlie was not mistaken) and somewhat awkwardly worded English. 'She has been in a fight before five years, and cannot fly. But we want babies. With a little help, she got pregnant. Now she has problem.'

'Merlin's beard!' Charlie whispered a few minutes later when they stepped out onto a clearing and he took in the sight of the huge beast in front of him. 'A Romanian Longhorn!' Indeed, held in check by dozens of magical ropes that needed constant inspection, was an enormous dragon whose scales shimmered dark green in the gentle light of a number of fairies that silently fluttered around it. On its snout, it carried a glittering golden horn. However, the upper half had been broken off.

'Did you take the horn off for security reasons?' Charlie whispered to Gerd.

He shook his murky blond mane. 'Was in the fight. Found it later. I'm sure it cost much money.'

'And the fairies? Why d'you use them? Wouldn't torches or _lumos_ do?'

'_Lumos_ is no good. We need our magic for other things. Torches are fine, but dragons that carry eggs are… they don't like other dragons near. And fire…'

'-Reminds them of their kin,' Charlie supplied.

Gerd nodded in satisfaction that he had understood.

They were greeted by the men of the day shift. They exchanged a few swift words with Reg, of which Charlie understood not a single one, and then Gerd gave him a shove toward the dragon. 'We help Gregor.'

Gregor turned out to be a mediwizard, or at least someone who had knowledge about dragon medicine. Two wizards constantly circled the dragon to make sure the restraints held, and two others were busy diverting the expectant mother's attention while Gregor was busy feeling her abdomen. 'Ah, too much eggs,' was his analysis. 'See,' he prompted Charlie to touch the place himself. It bulged in what he supposed was an unnatural manner. The poor lady certainly was in pain.

'And what do we do, now?' Charlie asked.

Gregor furrowed his brows. He left his kneeling position and walked over to Reg. They had a quick discussion; then he hurried back to the dragon. 'We take out one egg.'

'Isn't that dangerous for her – and us?' enquired Charlie doubtfully.

'No choice.'

'How do we go about this? You can't anaesthetise a dragon, can you?'

Gregor shook his head. 'Course not. Not the whole beast.'

'…but a part of it?' reasoned Charlie.

'The belly, yes. No scales there,' Gregor indicated. Right. Only the dragon scales held off the magic and made dragons such dangerous opponents.

All three of them fired a variety of spells at the expecting mother's abdomen, while she was fed with morsels of raw meat. From his care of Magical Creatures classes, the second Weasley son knew that dragons had very sharp senses, and therefore every attempt of feeding them something that was imbued with potions (or poisons) was bound to fail. Gregor carefully cut an opening with a sharp knife (he could work with it more precisely than with a slicing charm); then he asked Charlie to cast a strong cleansing charm on his hands and hold the abdomen open for him. With hardly a flinch, Charlie fulfilled the rather bloody task. Greg gently pulled out a big egg with dark green sprinkles beneath the red film that covered it. He enveloped it and handed it to Charlie. 'Good job. Put a warming charm on this and get it to Reg.'

When he came to Reg, the egg cradled in his arms, he was granted a curt nod. Then the man turned to the other candidate. 'You go and take Bo's place,' he indicated the men that fed the dragon. 'And keep calm.' At the sight of the guy's pale face, that seemed a justified demand.

As if Reg had sensed that the other candidate meant trouble, everything went awry. Gregor was barely half finished with magically closing the cut when the dragon suddenly roared up. Not a heartbeat later, Reg started toward the beast and called back to Charlie, 'put that egg safely down and come!' He jumped onto his broom.

After taking the egg into the woods and depositing it safely there wrapped into his outer robes, Charlie stared up in awe at Reg while he ran toward the scene. The man looked like a fly circling around the beast's nose, like a bothersome insect that the dragon could easily swipe away with one swish of its claws. However, the dragon did not. Whatever Reg did seemed to calm it down.

'Get the boy away!' someone shouted, and Charlie concentrated his attention on the ground, where the other candidate stood rooted to the spot. On second sight, while he already had seized the guy by the arm and started to drag him away, Charlie noted that he had literally _wetted_ himself. Having pulled him a relatively safe distance away, Charlie ran back to see what else he could do, but there was nothing. Gerd and Gregor were busy securing the wound, but everyone else just watched their boss. Gradually, the dragon sank lower and lower until it put its front claws back down on the air and folded in its wings (or what was left of them). After ten minutes, it bedded its head, that was about the size of the Weasley's living room, on a soft patch of grass, and the wizards adjusted their magical ropes. Still Reg kept on singing a chant Charlie had never heard before. It put an unnatural calm upon all of them. It was strange – should Charlie not have heard of this technique before? He had always learned that a single wizard could _never_ be able to subdue a dragon. Or if indeed this was the extraordinary piece of magic that he thought it was, should he not have heard of the wizard who had the power to wield it, then? Wizarding society always went on about this or that great conjurer, loving its adventure stories. Just think of that Lockhard-bloke that had popped up lately and told one unbelievable story after the other, growing more famous with each one. None of them had included keeping a dragon in check single-handedly…

Eventually, the chant stopped. 'Get that fool off our land,' Reg commanded, pointing to the second candidate. He flew over to Charlie and levelled his broom next to him. 'Do you feel up to finishing the shift?'

'Sure,' Charlie answered in surprise.

Reg nodded. 'I need to take care of the egg, now,' he explained gruffly, apparently annoyed by the incident. 'If you finish up alright, let Gerd show you to my office. We'll discuss the details then, should you still be interested.'

'Of course I am!' exclaimed the redhead immediately with obvious enthusiasm.

The look he received in return made him freeze. It felt as if Reg regarded Charlie's elation as a personal insult. Yet before he could react in any way, the other man took off toward the egg, lifted it up, and flew up over the mountain back to the houses.

Charlie and Gregor remained with the dragon lady for another hour to make sure she was alright while Gerd and the four others flew on to another fosterling. 'What exactly did Reg do there?' the applicant asked with subdued voice as they sat staring at the slowly rising and falling belly of the Romanian Longhorn.

Gregor shrugged. 'No idea. There are strange rumours whispered about his father. Perhaps he has taken a leaf out of the same book.' At Charlie's bemused look he added, 'Dark magic.' After a pause, Gregor remarked, 'But he doesn't seem to like it. Only uses when there is no other way and has a horrible mood.'

Charlie chuckled uneasily. 'Yeah, I noticed that.'

'Don't let him fool you. He always plays tough with the greenhorns, but once you prove yourself, he is really fair, reliable guy. Stands in for his men.'

* * *

><p>About four hours later, Charlie stood in front of Reg's door. He inhaled deeply, putting his thoughts back in order one last time before going inside. This was a dream coming true. The only thing that left a slightly bitter aftertaste was the mention of dark magic. He knew what his parents would say to that. But Gregor had made it sound as if it was anything but a regular, normal thing here. More like a last resort. Who knew what would have happened if Reg had not stepped in today? Most likely, some of the wizards would have been severely injured (or worse), and the Romanian Longhorn would have lost its eggs and would have been left with a gapping wound. He knocked.<p>

Reg opened and with a nod of his head prompted the eighteen years old to come in. 'Tea, coffee, firewhiskey?' he offered with a smirk.

'Tea with a shot sounds good,' Charlie replied with feinted calm.

He was motioned to an assortment of cosy looking, dark green armchairs (resembling the Romanian Longhorn but made of velvet) while Reg moved over to a corner in which a hearth and a cupboard stood and prepared the drinks. Looking around, Charlie found the room quite nice. Was the kitchen corner to his right, there stood an old-fashioned, big desk to his left, and behind that some stuffed bookshelves. On the wall opposite him, right next to the door hung a huge notice board, and next to that in the far right corner led a spiralling staircase to the upper storey. In the right wall squeezed in between the stairs and the kitchen cupboard led a door off to further rooms – probably private ones, he guessed.

Reg set two big mugs of tea on the table in front of them and poured them each a healthy amount of firewhiskey. He leaned back, mug in hand, one booted foot resting lazily on the other leg's knee. 'So, Mr. Weasley. You plan on leaving comfy Britain to join us in our humble settlement. Why would that be?' He cocked an eyebrow.

Sensing that, in contrast to what he had thought, he did not yet have the contract bagged, Charlie smiled. 'Seems quite obvious – I want to work with dragons.'

'You could do that closer to home,' Reg pointed out. 'There's a nice little reservation in Wales, or so I'm told.' Reg's voice was playful but there was still an edge to it. This clearly was a test. 'Wouldn't it be more convenient to stay at home and floo off to work from there each morning?'

The redhead shrugged. 'As you say, it's a small reservation. I don't want to do things half-heartedly.'

Reg blew over his tea. 'Home getting a bit too stuffed with six siblings, does it?' he goaded Charlie.

Well, that guy was well informed, and he clearly was angling for something, he thought, only he did not yet see what it was.

'I think at eighteen most people want to start a life of their own, no matter the size of their family,' he retorted therefore without taking the bait.

Reg sipped his tea and gazed out of a small window between two bookshelves. 'So, why dragons? Why not curse-breaking or wand-lore or owl breeding?'

'Well, as for why working with magical creatures, it's what I'm best at. Because it interests me the most.' Charlie fished the roll of parchment out of his bag that held his N.E.W.T. results and handed them to the other man.

Reg gave them a cursory glance, with a short rise and fall of his brow that Charlie was unsure how to interpret, and put the parchment aside.

_Keep talking!_ the young man prompted himself. 'I like working outside, combining knowledge with experience and a good instinct. I don't want to be shuffling papers around, and I prefer dealing with living and breathing beings to inanimate objects. They have a character of their own, which is an additional challenge.

'Now, dragons are just one of the most interesting species. They are full of powerful magic, but little is known about them. A friend told me you research them.' Charlie thought he should have mentioned his interest in that earlier already, but at least he had thought of it at all.

Reg nodded minutely and took another sip. 'Let's say we accept you. Where do you see yourself in a few years' time? What are your goals?'

That question! Bill had warned him about it, but he still did not really know what to answer. How was he supposed to know what life would bring? 'I'm open for many things. I like hard work, a bit of adventure. From what I've heard and seen of your work, this is the perfect place for me. So I guess I see myself still here. Not as a simple worker, more as a researcher or in some other position with responsibility,' he answered honestly.

'What if things aren't as easy as that? Where are you standing politically? You're a pureblood, after all. Granted, the Weasley-name is not standing in very high regard at present, but I'm sure you could cleanse it if you chose the right side…'

Charlie's eyes narrowed and his face darkened. Who was that guy that he knew all these things and dared to make such insinuations? He took a few seconds to stomach that comment; then he rose from his seat. 'I think I've made a mistake coming here.'

Reg calmly looked up at him while he smirked into his tea.

'Could I please have my N.E.W.T.s certificate back?' demanded Charlie, holding out his hand. The scroll still rested on Reg's knees.

'Sit back down,' the older man commanded quietly, but with a firm voice.

'Sorry, but I don't associate with dark wizards,' Charlie said determinedly.

'Neither do I,' purred Reg, 'which is precisely why I was bound to bring that topic up.' Then with more emphasis: 'Sit. Down.'

After a moment's hesitation, the redhead did.

'Now that we've dealt with that issue-,' Reg rose, throwing the scroll on Charlie's lap and walking over to his desk for another one. He handed it to Charlie as well. 'This is the contract. Take it home, read it carefully, show it to your parents, and sign it. Guys with no wife or girlfriend get a room in one of the houses, sharing with two others. Many of them don't speak English very well. I have been weary so far of hiring Brits, and I'll definitely have your head should I find but the merest trace of Dark Magic on you at any point in the future, mark my words.'

'Aren't you a bit biased? I mean, just because You-Know-Who was an Englishman doesn't mean every one of us is dark,' Charlie felt the need to defend himself.

Another smirk. 'Of course it doesn't, or else you wouldn't be here. Neither is every supporter of pureblood rights on the Dark Lord's side, or every act of Dark Magic in itself evil. Yet it carries potential, and I think you have gotten the message.'

Charlie inclined his head.

'What I wanted to say before we made a detour into that dark alley is that you'll be assigned to Gerd for the next six months, unless you have major problems with him, which would surprise me. He's a good, easy-going type of person and he'll introduce you to the basics. By the end of that time, I hope you'll have picked up enough of the other guys' languages to at least be able to understand enough to work with them.'

'Any language in particular?' Charlie tried to coax out a little more information. He was not a multi-linguist.

Reg shook his head. 'There're all kinds of nationalities represented here. Over time, we've formed a somewhat awkward working vocabulary – a mix of languages. It'll come to you, don't worry. Any further urgent questions?'

Charlie could think of none for the moment, although he was sure he was going to have many once he had sorted out his thoughts. He shook hands with Reg and, elatedly, portkeyed back to The Burrow.

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><p>Any mistakes in Gerd's and Gregor's speech are intentional.<p>

**Resolution for the new year: post a review every three chapters.** ;P


	6. A strange kind of fortune

****DISCLAIMER : The characters and some events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.****

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><p><strong>6: A strange kind of fortune<strong>

_(August 1991)_

Viola's birthday in August was a quiet affair. In previous years, there had been small social events each time. This year, they were a group of four – her sister, her mother, her aunt, and Viola herself – that sat around the old table in the once glorious but now shabby drawing room in their house in the Danish country and had tea together as they also did on so many ordinary days.

At least Viola had the opportunity to make music with others during the holidays. They met in an old chapel three times a week – two boys that visited the Durmstrang school and one young witch who had already finished school – and played. It was the young witch that, at one of these occasions, told them about an extraordinary opportunity.

'My father has many contacts, as you know. One of his friends is part of the Dragen Broderskab, and he asked far if he knew anyone who'd play at the julefest of the brotherhood. Far suggested _us_!'

The two adolescent boys howled with excitement, words like 'great' and 'gorgeous' coming from their mouths. So far, the quartet that was comprised of one cello, two violins, and one oboe had only played for family gatherings. Since their combination of instruments was rather uncommon, they had to adapt musical pieces that were originally written for a different instrumentation, but they were often commended for their originality. The others had often loudly fantasised about paid performances, but Viola always thought that she was not good enough.

She expressed the same belief, now. 'Play in front of hundreds of strangers? We're not ready for that!'

Three voices of disagreement met her exclamation. 'We're more than ready! You have no idea how many times people come up to me and ask me about us, about _you_! I'm studying music with Professor Bergström in Stockholm – do you really think I'd bother with this if it wasn't brilliant?'

Viola fell silent and dropped her gaze to the floor.

'On top, they offer to pay fifty galleons. To each of us!'

In the subsequent poll, she was outvoted.

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><p>The following months, the quartet met each weekend for an afternoon to practice. Even during school time they were given special leave to floo home for their rehearsals. The Yule party was a challenge for them, for they were asked to have a variety of European traditional folk pieces in their repertoire to give credit to the multicultural mixture of people within the brotherhood.<p>

What the brotherhood was, was anyone's guess. Officially, they were known to deal with all kinds of magical creatures, breeding them, and selling their products. Behind closed doors, rumour said they were more than just business associates; an organisation of wizards with a special interest in the dark arts. That rumour stemmed from the brotherhood's leader's murky reputation. There was, however, not one incident known that supported these speculations. To all appearances, the Dragen Broderskab was only a federation of tough, and above all very successful, businessmen that were respected in society for their high work ethics (though that respect was mingled with some trepidation in company of a 'brother'), which was why Viola's mother happily embraced the opportunity for her daughter to earn some dearly needed money. Only when Viola repeatedly voiced her misgivings in relation to the concert, disclosed her mother to her that this was the only way that they would be able to pay her school fee (even though half of it was already paid by the Danish Ministry for Magic).

The actual event took place in the afternoon and evening hours of the 22nd of December. Their performance was scheduled for the late afternoon to take place in the Great Hall of a moated castle in the north of Denmark in whose chambers they were also invited to spend the night.

As Viola floo'ed in with the three others about midday, she stepped into an impressive study, its walls covered in bookshelves made of walnut wood, its windows half-covered by heavy, ruby-coloured drapes. Outside, the first snowflakes of the year were hurled through the air by a fierce, cold wind. The sound of children laughing and frolicking through the castle came in through the open door, while a medium-sized man stepped up to them in greeting. Had she been asked, Viola would have described him as a stout, athletic man that, despite his dark eyes and his for a wizard unusually short haircut that left her with the impression of a very strong-willed, sharp-minded, and straight-forward personality, welcomed them warmly and immediately struck her as very likeable.

Åge, as he said his name was, excused the absence of house elves (who were all occupied with meal preparations) and offered to show them to their rooms himself. Viola was fascinated with the shimmering red of his billowing robes as she followed him and also admired the fine black embroidery that adorned its brims. After a moment, however, her gaze started to wander. She marvelled at the wide halls, corridors, and stairwells that they strode through. Rich, colourful paintings, at least a dozen feet high, covered the walls, hundreds of people crowding each one of them, illustrating the Goblin Rebellion in Great Britain in 1612 or the famous myth of the Flight from the Dragon that had supposedly taken place in the early middle ages (8th or 9th century) in Norway and these days had become a tale every mother told her children as bedtime story. Indeed, all of the paintings' motives dealt with magical creatures in one way or the other. In one huge frame, all that Viola could see were the scales of a gigantic snake that glittered in the light of the corridor's torches as they slowly moved through the picture. She quickly hurried to catch up with her host, not eager at all to meet that creature face to face or – Merlin beware – eye to eye.

Eventually, Åge halted in front of a door and opened it. A spacious room with two beds and warming flames in the fireplace came into view. 'This will be the ladies' bedroom; the next door leads to the chamber for the gentlemen.' He smiled at them. 'As we are working in shifts today, some of us taking care of business, the rest enjoying themselves here, I would ask you to play for about an hour at two o'clock and once more at five o'clock, if that is agreeable?'

The blond oboe-player, the eldest of them, acted as spokesperson. 'Yes, of course. You said you wanted a potpourri of pieces of both classical and folk music but haven't given any more precise instructions – do you have any special wishes? Any concept of the order of the pieces?'

Their host shook his head minutely. 'You are the artists; I don't intend to reduce your creative freedom.' He shrugged. 'You will see that we are a colourful group of people. Men and women, and even a few children. Most of them are easy-going people that just want a bit of light entertainment that reminds them of their home country. Some, however, appreciate the fine arts. That is why I asked for diversity. Perhaps it would be best if the slower pieces dominated the afternoon session, while at tea time you played a few dance songs, to help the audience into a more cheerful mood, suiting the evening programme.'

'I see,' the blonde replied.

'If you don't have any further questions, I will leave you, now. Feel free to wander the castle. I will send an elf to fetch you at half past one, so you can prepare in the venue.'

They thanked him and turned to their respective rooms.

Viola placed her bag and her precious violin (that had been fawned over by her fellow musicians when she had first come to a rehearsal with it) next to one of two identical dressers and walked over to a window to open it. The house elves had been a little over-eager in piling up fuel on the fire so that the room was quite stifling. Looking down through the tumbling masses of snow, she took in the scenery of the lake that surrounded the castle. 'This is an amazing place,' she expressed her awe. 'I never thought I would ever stay in a castle like this. It's almost as in a fairy tale.'

The blonde smiled at her while she busied herself with unpacking, an occupation that seemed fruitless to Viola because she knew that she was going to leave in less than twenty-four hours. 'Yes, it's quite nice for a change. When I was younger, I spent many summers at my uncle Julien's in France' – her family was of similar blood status as Viola's, but far wealthier – 'but I would not want to live in such a place forever. It's too impractical. I prefer our mansion. At least there is always a house elf available,' she huffed and eyed the clothes in her hand.

Viola refrained from replying. There was nothing she could contribute to the conversation that would not either affront her companion or embarrass herself. She had been unable to find anything suitable in her wardrobe, not to mention buy something new for today's occasion. In the end, only the generosity of her mother in lending her one of her old but rarely used dresses had saved her from disaster.

Since they merely had an hour until they were to be fetched by the elf, the four of them sat together for some light rehearsal.

* * *

><p>Viola's heart hammered insistently against her small chest as she sat there in the last minutes before they would play their first notes and watched the people slowly gathering and sitting down at tables of three to eight people each that were set with almond biscuits, gingerbread, and all kinds of other Christmas pastries. There were mostly men between twenty and sixty, well-built, and not as a general rule well-dressed, although some had given their looks some consideration and had exchanged their work gear (that reminded Viola very much of the man she had met during that Saturday afternoon near her school) with something more festive. Additionally, about fifteen or twenty women – presumably the men's wives – and a couple of children in varying ages talked animatedly with each other. All in all, Viola guessed, there were approximately a hundred people seated around them, but there were a few more males walking the castle's halls and corridors.<p>

The quartet sat on a slightly raised platform in their midst that they shared with a huge Christmas tree, heavily hung with all kinds of sweets and a constant attraction for the children that were eager to relieve the twigs of their load, something that earned them reproachful looks from the fairies who sat on the branches in place of candles, giving off a glimmering light.

Eventually, their host stepped up to them to hold a short introduction speech that Viola in her nervousness paid little attention to. When he came to a close, her fingers trembled so much that she was certain she would not hit a single note correctly. Yet when her bow touched the string, all anxiety flowed threw her hand out of her body into the instrument and quietly dissipated there. She felt free and light, melting with the instrument and into the music. It had been love at first touch between the two of them – Viola and her violin. Everything seemed so much easier with this instrument than with her old one, and filled with the lightness that flooded her mind, now, the girl was unable to believe anyone could be happier. She had never felt like this before.

They had opted for dividing their hour into quarters; one quarter classical music, the next quarter folk, and so forth. Every once in a while, Viola dared to glance at the audience to assess their mood. As was to be expected at such an event, not everyone paid attention to the music. A soft murmur of conversation formed the carpet on which their songs danced. Yet some women and a few of the children and males listened intently, even displayed a small smile at some sections that seemed to especially please them.

The four musicians had improvised little bridges that led from one piece to the other, and during one of those, Viola's wandering gaze found the table of their host. He sat to their right, almost hidden behind the piles of small presents that lay beneath the Christmas tree, and had thus evaded detection so far. She glanced back at her notes out of habit although she knew everything by heart, and then threw another look at him, eager to learn if he liked their performance. Åge leaned towards another man whose sight shot an arrow of recognition through Viola's mind: it was the man who had complimented her on her play. So her initial thought that these people resembled him in their appearance had been well founded.

For a while, she had to pay closer attention to the music for they had reached a challenging section, then she dared a third glance in the host table's direction. Régis, as she remembered the man had called himself, had taken care to wear a robe of dark blue velvet over his animal hide attire. On his lap sat a small girl, snuggled up against his chest and wearing that same expression of being deeply enthralled with the music on her face that he had on his. Both of them had closed their eyes. That image made Viola smile. So Reg was one of the few men here who had founded a family.

They played the last two pieces. When their music faded away and they bathed in a fair amount of applause, Viola was once more swept away by excitement. She beamed at her fellow musicians and barely dared a few glances at the audience while she rose to her unsteady feet. The oboist hugged her. 'I need something to drink, now,' she commented and pulled Viola with her off the podium.

They almost collided with their host. 'Won't you join me at my table?' he proposed.

The oboist received a glass of elf-made, golden wine; Viola was offered some cherry juice that she accepted gladly, and she emptied it in one draught. The cold feel of the glass against her lips gave her an idea of how flushed she must look.

Only after she had taken a few deep breaths and had sunken lower into her comfortable chair, feeling the excitement slowly abate, did she take in her surroundings. She sat in the chair that a few moments ago had been occupied by the woman who she believed to be Reg's wife; the oboist sat on the chair he had been in. 'Where is Régis?' she asked, the residues of adrenaline in her mind robbing her of her usual inhibitions.

Her host looked at her interestedly. 'You are acquainted with each other?'

Still too riled up to flush more than she already had, Viola merely nodded meekly at the realisation that she had just given away something like a 'secret'. Yet, then again, there was nothing to it. He had merely joined her on a walk.

'He had to go back to work,' Åge answered the young girl's question. 'Would you care for a piece of chokoladekage?'

* * *

><p>Their second performance of the day went even smoother than the first. Now, the excitement Viola had experienced during the first time had slightly immunised her to the stage-fright as if her body had decided that one extreme bout of nervousness was all it could take per day.<p>

Half an hour after they had put away their instruments, a huge banquet started. Their host insisted that they attend, but of course with dozens and dozens of other guests, he could not pay the musicians much attention as it proceeded.

After an hour and a half, the chatter and laughter and clatter of plates and crying of infants overwhelmed Viola, and she silently slipped off to find a bit of solitude. Tired from the day's many excitements and dozy from the heat that emanated from the fireplaces, the girl elected to take a walk in the fresh winter air. She retrieved her (somewhat tattered) travelling cloak and went to find a door that led outside. After fifteen minutes' fruitless errantry, she finally spotted a house elf that accompanied her to the courtyard.

The coldness of the air shocked her lungs into almost denying her their service when she pushed open the old wooden door. In the cold light of the almost full moon, she could see her breath form huge white clouds. Hiding her bare hands in the depths of her cloak's sleeves and wrapping said garment tighter around her small body, she stepped outside into the night.

In the dark, she could only dimly make out the shapes of the courtyard. Some steps made of erratic boulders led down a small but steep hill that was covered in grass. On its foot, several big, old trees – mainly birch – stretched their twisted branches skywards. They surrounded a small pond. When Viola had descended the stairs, she spotted a bench on which she – after brushing off the snow – settled down.

A bird joined her after a while, picking grains from the ground that someone had apparently strewn there some time earlier that day. Shuddering, Viola drew in her legs, resting her feet on the brink of the bench and hugging her knees. She looked up to the stars, every once in a while seeing a shadow pass in front of them towards one of the towers. The owls must have their room up there.

Sometimes, Viola wondered. She lived in a magical world. Everyone could do the basic daily life charms. In the end, even though magic had some limitations (it was impossible, for example, to produce food out of thin air), almost every problem could be solved by it. And yet, there were still so profound differences between the lives of the people. Why did she have to fear being unable to pay the school fee, why did she have to wear tattered clothes and forego her beloved music lessons when other people could live like this? In a castle, with banquets, and fires blazing in their fireplaces, and wealthy enough to pay musicians for two hours of entertainment as much as her mother earned in two months of hard labour.

Where did these social distinctions spring from? Had her father been an untalented wizard? She did not know much about him. He had always kept all matters of importance from the children, probably also from his wife. 'Women have no mind for these matters' he had always claimed. 'All you have to concern yourselves with is marrying well and making sure to please your husbands,' he had lectured her and her sister. She had never dared to pose a personal question. Her instincts had always told her that she was below him; that she had no right to… Well, to do what? Get closer to her father?

Sadly, Viola could not say she held much affection for him. She had always wondered about that. Well, not always. Of course, he had not sent them to a Muggle primary school, as some poor wizarding families did since it meant free education. No, his children's education had been a matter of parental responsibility. Thus, before she had finally been sent to Beauxbatons, Viola had had little contact with other children and had thus had no opportunity to compare her family life to that of others. Only when the girls at school affectionately spoke of their 'papa' and the boys had boasted with the activities they had shared with their dads did it slowly dawn on Viola that perhaps something was not right within her family. It had taken a while to sink in.

Now that her father had left them, she asked herself what life would have been like if he had been a different person. What if, instead of emphasising pureblood dignity that dictated that he alone was to sustain the family, he had let her mother finish school and take up a job? What if he had not been so obsessed with the idea of a male heir? Had the stress he had put her mother under perhaps partly caused her bad health? Would she…

-A faint pop, barely audible had it not been for the absolute quiet surrounding Viola, wrenched her out of her thoughts. Quickly, she took her feet off the bench. On the other side of the pond, a dark figure appeared with its back to her. Scuffing its feet, it moved a few steps further away from her, turned around, and slumped down on a second bench opposite hers. A huge white cloud rose up from the man's mouth when he huffed and threw back his hair. From such a distance and in the dim moonlight, Viola could not be certain, but she thought she also saw vapour rise from the top of his head as if he were sweating.

'All alone out here, Miss Søgaard?' he suddenly asked, and she realised in whose company she sat. When she did not answer immediately, he went on by himself. 'Well, perhaps these banquets are not quite where a young woman of respectable parentage should linger for too long. Not everyone here has internalised the behaviour that is deemed appropriate in the company of a lady.'

Viola felt a strange sensation stir inside her. She – a lady. No one had called her that yet. She was always the little one. Even amongst her peers her opinion often did not have the same weight as others had. She was too petite, too quiet. She was considered sweet, perhaps, but people rarely paid attention to what she had to say. The thought of being called a 'lady' made her smile.

The girl peered over to her charmer, trying to make up her mind. Should she…? Slowly, she rose from her seat and moved over to him with measured steps. When she settled down on the far end of the bench, he rewarded her with a gentle smile. 'I enjoyed your little concert this afternoon very much,' he offered a compliment in welcome.

She returned his smile shyly, her hands clamped together. 'Thank you.' Eyeing his indeed still slightly steaming, somewhat tousled appearance, she dared to pose a question. 'You never told me with what kind of magical creatures you work…'

He smirked and reached into an inner pocket of his robes. The moonlight caught on the small phial that he held out to Viola.

She took it and, holding his gaze to silently ask for his approval, carefully unplugged the stopper. She was not a very good student when it came to Transfiguration, and neither did she have the mind for all the star constellations above them, but Potions were her forte. She immediately recognised the strong, sulphuric stench when she moved her hand over the flask to make the smell waft over to her nose the way she had been taught. 'Dragons! You work with dragons?'

'Quite obvious, considering the name of the brotherhood, I would say,' he commented dryly.

Heat rose to her face at the realisation of her own stupidity. She re-plugged the stopper and handed the dragon blood back to him.

'Admittedly, we don't only breed dragons,' he added. 'It started with them, but lately we have expanded into breeding several other kinds that are also in danger of extinction and highly sought on the market of potion ingredients. Still, the dragon reservations are our most prestigious project; and – in my view – also the most interesting and challenging.' There was a faint glimmer in his eyes that conveyed his passion for what he was tasked with.

'How… I mean… What exactly do you do? And how did you get the job?'

'Thinking about your career perspectives?' he looked at her meaningfully. 'Nice to hear you don't plan to just be some man's trophy wife.'

She felt uneasy at his bluntness and confused about the things he had interpreted into her question and looked away.

Unexpectedly, he stood up. 'I need to find a bite to eat. If you care to join me in the kitchen, I'll gladly tell you whatever you wish to know.' With that and a prompting glance, he strode off.

Viola followed a few steps behind him.

'I joined Åge about ten years ago,' he commenced to answer her question when he held the door to the entrance hall open for her. 'He was looking for young wizards with a sense for adventure at the time, and so I was approached by someone and took the job after I passed the probation. It's not an easy job, mind you. It consumes a lot of time and energy. In exchange, however, Åge takes great care to create a good working atmosphere, as you can witness yourself. We're almost like a family.'

The girl smiled at that. A makeshift family – that sounded kind of nice. That was an idea she could relate to. Seeking a new family amongst friends. There had been a time when she had been close to her mother. They both shared a passion for music. Yet over the last years, perhaps partly due to Viola's stay at the school, it seemed to her that they had moved apart. Maybe it also stemmed from her mother's changed situation, the hard blow of her father's disappearance, and the many hardships her mother had had to go through in her life. Her sister was nice and someone she could count on, but the two of them had very different interests. All in all, Viola sometimes felt pretty alone.

After they had walked through a short corridor, Reg pushed open a door and heat combined with the flavour of dozens of different dishes hit Viola with full force. With amusement, she watched as he walked along the long, circle-shaped row of pots and pans, lifting lids and sniffing food. Soon, two house elves crowded around him, trying desperately to learn what he wanted, yet he ignored them.

'The tiramisu was heavenly,' she suggested.

'Well, if you say so…' Their eyes opening wide at the joy of finally receiving an answer, the elves scurried away. 'And I could use a large plate,' Reg added offhandedly while he eyed the lamb. Immediately, one of the elves halted in its tracks and took off into a new direction. Five seconds later, Reg had his plate and filled it with an assortment of diverse kinds of meat and bakes. The portion with which he finally sat down at the table was quite remarkable. He sent a challenging look at the girl that sat opposite of him to comment on it, but she kept quiet. The piece of tiramisu that was served to him was enormous as well. A moment later, Viola found the same dessert in front of her.

'As to your second question,' Reg continued while attacking a piece of lasagna, 'the demands of my job are numerous and diverse. I am the head of the Romanian reservation, therefore I have certain administrative responsibilities. I control the finances, I choose and observe the personnel. Yet I also still work some shifts with them. The reservation is a magically sealed area in which the dragons can roam freely, but we need to make sure that they do not kill each other because of territorial arguments. We also look after their health, make sure they find enough prey, and collect whatever they leave behind – egg shells, scales, fallen out teeth or claws – to sell it to potioneers. Sometimes we give them a nudge if they haven't been breeding in a while or we have to rescue little ones that were abandoned by their mother and hand-raise them. Those are the only ones we can obtain dragon blood from, apart from the handicapped dragons that cannot live on their own because they would not be able to hold their ground against other specimen. These we tend to in a small extra reservation.

'Additionally, as you know, I take care of the trade insofar as it concerns raw ingredients. Åge, as a Potions Master, also processes them, but I rarely have time to help him with that.'

Viola savoured the tiramisu that had been refined with banana. 'And how many people work for you?' she enquired.

Reg abandoned the lasagna after eating half of it and turned to the lamb. 'About fifty people in Romania. In the smaller reservation in Sweden, there are about thirty-five more. With a shift only lasting six hours, we still rarely have enough staff.'

'Why only six hours?,' Viola asked as she put her spoon down and took a sip of the juice that had been placed next to her plate. She was thrilled to be allowed such a detailed glimpse into this unknown world.

'It is all I can ask of my men,' Reg explained. 'After all, those six that keep an eye on the big main reservation with the free dragons have to spend all the time disillusioned on a broom in the air, no matter the weather. The eight that tend the handicapped ones are on call and need to head out immediately when there is a fight they have to keep under control. And with twenty-eight shifts a week, each staffed with sixteen men, my fifty must each do about nine shifts the week. Only the toughest can handle that.'

'Oh.' Viola pushed a morsel of tiramisu listlessly around on her plate, her stomach being already full to the brim. 'It is no surprise, then, that so few of you have wives and children.'

Reg smirked, and Viola thought he probably deemed her too immature to trouble her mind with such concerns, that he thought she was too young to discuss the matters between men and women and her comment therefore was hilarious. 'Indeed, it takes a special kind of woman. Few of the men are charming, well-mannered gentlemen,' he answered.

'But you are,' Viola said before she realised what she was doing and slightly pulled her shoulders up in embarrassment.

The man opposite her, that had by then pushed his half-empty plate away and eyed his dessert, displayed a mischievous smile. 'Why, thank you.' In a quieter voice he added, 'Life sometimes strikes strange paths.'

Viola looked at him contemplatively. 'May I ask you something?'

Reg pushed a spoonful of white cream topped with dark brown powder into his mouth and motioned for her to go on.

'Your name is Régis, but you don't have a French accent. Your Danish is very good, but every once in a while it sounds a bit strange – where do you come from?'

Régis leaned back and folded his arms. 'Oh, I am Danish,' he assured her, 'but I am travelling a lot.'

'And you use other languages so much that they influence your Danish already?'

The man shrugged. 'Seems a logical assumption.'

Viola wanted to know how Reg's wife dealt with the business and presumably long absences of her husband, but seeing the way the man already seemed a little offended by her insinuation that his Danish was off (he had stopped eating and watched her intently, his arms still crossed in front of his chest), she thought such a question was too private. 'I guess I should go to bed, now,' she announced with regret. She would have loved talking to him some more.

He retrieved a silver pocket watch with fine engravings that the girl could not see in detail, and flicked it open to peer at the face inside. 'Perhaps you are right. I'll guide you to your room and turn in myself afterwards.'

Glad of his offer to accompany her, Viola beamed and thanked him.

As they walked through the castle, the sounds of laughter and music could be heard. It seemed the banquet had turned into a merry feast with dancing and flirting and a lot of drinking.

Reg took a turn to the right, and only a few steps later, when the sounds had disappeared from their listening range, Viola recognised the corridor that led to her room. He stopped in front of it and faced her with a soft smile on his lips. 'God nat, frøken Søgaard.'

'God nat,' she whispered and slipped into her room. Seeing that she was alone, she closed the door, leaned against it, and shut her eyes.

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><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 7<strong>

The name 'Åge' is derived from ÁKI: Old Norse diminutive of names containing the element _anu_ "ancestor, father". It is pronounced 'oge' (as ogre without the r).

chokoladekage: Danish for chocolate cake

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><p><em><strong>Thanks to all of you for the reviews!<strong>_

Due to the new semester starting and the plot bunnies playing hide and seek with me, I'm going to switch to updating every two weeks from now on.

This was the longest chapter so far, by the way.

See that shiny link next to the speech bubble?

**P.S.:** I just noticed I've made a mistake - I combined chapters 2 and 3 to one as was suggested by Sveta, but that means that chapter 7 turned to chapter 6, and those of you that had already reviewed chapter 6 could not leave a review for this chapter. Mea culpa.


	7. Laying foundations

**DISCLAIMER : The characters and some events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.**

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><p><strong>7: Laying foundations<strong>

_(December 1991)_

'Mum, Dad,' Charlie greeted his parents as they landed on the frozen ground between the dragon keepers' huts. He gave his mother a hug, thereby also greeting his little sister who had taken her first portkey travel in her arms. They beamed at each other.

After a short wrestling, Molly Weasley allowed her second eldest son to take her suitcase, and he led them to a house dedicated to visitors. It had taken Charlie several attempts to convince his boss of letting his parents see his new workplace. Eventually, Reg had grudgingly named Christmas as the only period in which he would allow such a visit. Charlie could not see the logic behind that – at Christmas, schedules were especially tight, and on top, Regulus himself was in Asia for several weeks to study dragon lore there. Why he would choose this point in time to allow visitors on the premises was beyond Charlie. But he was not going to complain. It was, admittedly, a little strange to have one's parents come to one's workplace. However, Molly Weasley worried constantly about her sons – with Bill a curse-breaker in Egypt and Charlie constantly surrounded by the second-most dangerous creatures in existence. This was his attempt at reassuring her that he was fine.

'How's your arm?' Mrs. Weasley asked in concern as she charmed the suitcases open and made the clothing fly into the wardrobe. Early in his probation, her second son had discovered the unpleasant side of being a dragon keeper – his arm had been severely burnt. He'd been given a five days sick leave because of it in August, that he had spent in his mother's care, but the injury had not healed properly during that time. Now, four months later, his arm was fine again, but the marks remained.

His parents and Ginny stayed for four days. Ginny loved watching the dragon keepers spar in their free time (until her mother caught her at it), and Mr. Weasley spent hours perusing the Muggle journals laid out in Reg's office eagerly when Charlie was off to work.

For Christmas, Mrs. Weasley prepared a festive meal (despite Charlie's protestations that it wasn't necessary) that everyone from Charlie's shift took in the office. It was a merry gathering, and when eventually the Weasleys departed, the dragon keepers bid them come back any time they liked.

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><p>.~*~.<p>

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><p>Christmas was a stark contrast to the feast two days previous. Luckily, they were once more invited to her aunts' house. Aunt Camilla was over twenty years older than Viola's mother and had lost her husband in the Grindelwald war in 1943 at the age of eighteen, three years before Viola's mother had even been born. She had never remarried, but instead had gone into the field of Herbology in which her father had worked already and had eventually taken over his business five years ago. The business did not bloom, but it fed her and Viola's aged grandparents, and every once in a while she slipped a galleon or two into Viola's robe pocket. Yet there was certainly not the enormous pile of food to be found on her table that Viola had seen in the moated castle. She did not even have a house elf, and the elf Viola's father owned had disappeared with him. Thus, the small duck was roasted a little too well, and Viola guessed that this had happened in a vain attempt to make the old animal turn into a soft piece of joint in the end. There was no tiramisu either, but the traditional ris à la mande certainly tasted delicious. Unfortunately, though, Viola did not catch the almond, so that the price was handed over to her grandmother, who certainly looked delighted at the prospect of visiting the theatre, no matter that the set of two tickets was for the cheapest seats available.<p>

It was a Danish tradition to eat a refined version of rice pudding with almond pieces in it for dessert at Christmas and hide a single whole almond in it. The one who found it, had to keep it in their mouth and wait with their announcement of being the winner until everyone had eaten up. In the end, they received a gift.

Her grandparents also had a son who was even older than Aunt Camilla. He had married the only daughter of a British pureblood family merely months before the breakout of the Grindelwald war and had taken on her family name. Back then, her grandparents had still been quite wealthy, but they had lost most of their possessions during the war, and with them they had lost much of their family's prestige. Viola's uncle certainly had the monetary means to solve that problem, but he depended on the good will of his wife, and that lady was a rather cool, if not to say icy person that seemed intent on keeping her association with the impoverished parts of her relations to a minimum.

Sometimes Viola doubted herself, thought she was imagining things, but nevertheless, she could not shake off the feeling of being left behind. She had never gotten to know her uncle. Her father had chosen to leave her and her mother and sister and disappear without giving any notice of his whereabouts. Her schoolmates always told about their amazing holidays and their plans for the future, whereas Viola felt trapped in her little world. Perhaps that was why she had been so impressed with the moated castle, so impressed by the attention Régis had paid her… But to lose herself in false hopes was folly. Viola had enjoyed the foray into a different reality, but it was unlikely to find a repeat.

And now, her sister was going to marry. She turned seventeen on the thirtieth of December, and her wedding was scheduled for the Easter Holidays, so her last school year was not disrupted by it. Agnetha spent the whole Christmas holidays running around with the silken scarf her fiancé had given her around her neck, and she celebrated New Year's Eve at his house. Yes, it almost seemed to Viola as if a good marriage was _her_ only chance to get away as well. But was it? Régis' words rang in the back of her mind: _' Nice to hear you don't plan to just be some man's trophy wife.'_ How depreciative that had sounded. As if 'just being someone's wife' was something to frown upon. All the women in her vicinity, the women she had been influenced by, regarded it as a privilege to stay home and care for their husbands. Those who worked only did so because of bad circumstances. Still, it had felt special to be able to earn her own money by doing something she loved to do – making music.

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><p>.~*~.<p>

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><p>Reg whistled a merry tune as he stood in front of the mirror in his bathroom and shaved and trimmed his beard. This day promised to be a pleasant one. It was the first time in a fortnight that he was scheduled to work at the nursery. That was usually an easy job, to be done in a warm house instead of the cold February air and including a light chat with the co-worker. Subsequently, he planned to spend his evening and night at Åge's, talking about business, but mostly relaxing.<p>

He wiped the remainders of foam off with a towel and regarded the result in the mirror. Deeming it acceptable, he forced his hair into his characteristic pony tail and put on his shirt.

After consuming a savoury breakfast (and still holding a cup of strong coffee in his hand), Reg walked over to the 'baby ward'. Charlie, who had finished his probation time a few weeks ago, was already in and fed a small Hungarian Horntail. 'He's doing fine,' he informed Reg, 'has already put on another quarter of a pound since yesterday.'

'Good,' his boss commented, gulped down the last drops of his coffee, and set the mug aside. 'I think we'll take him to Sweden in two weeks. They need a good stud dragon over there.' He walked over to the boxes in which the eggs slowly matured under some carefully placed warming charms. They needed to be moved every once in a while, and this presented the opportunity to examine them more closely. However, before he even started with the deed, Reg already noticed something. The egg of the Norwegian Ridgeback – the first in ten years to actually contain a living foetus – had definitely had a different mottle when he had last seen it. He took the egg out and – with a Revelo Anima – looked inside it. It was empty. Not dead, no. There had never been a foetus in it. It had never been inseminated. It was only a replacement for the real thing. In other words: someone had stolen the original egg.

Reg pursed his lips and considered his options. He could not keep this secret to investigate the matter. Others would notice it as well. Unless…

He put the egg aside and continued his work, marking the foetus as 'dead', even though in truth it was 'absent'. His young colleague did not even notice.

* * *

><p>They sat in the library in front of a blazing fire that kept the winter chill out of the room. Reg had opted for a firewhiskey; Åge drank dwarven ale. They had not talked in a while when Reg finally spoke into the silence. 'I'll have to fire someone.' He savoured the whiskey and felt it burn down his gullet.<p>

'Who?'

'I'm not sure yet. Bo, Ilija, Vasil or Frank.' He seized the poker and pushed an only half burned log closer to the centre of the fire.

'Care to elaborate?' asked Åge slightly impatient.

Reg sighed. 'We were hatching an egg of a Norwegian Ridgeback,' he informed the other wizard.

His conversation partner raised an eyebrow in amazement.

Reg merely nodded morosely. 'I haven't had duty in two weeks, but the files document that it developed well. However, when I did the early dayshift this morning, the egg had been replaced by an unfertilised egg.'

'Thievery? In your reservation?'

'Must have happened during one of the night shifts. Gerd had the second day shift yesterday. He would have noticed something. And he knows that such things do not slip my notice either, so he would not dare commit such folly. Not to mention that he's an honest soul. That leaves the four people mentioned.'

Åge unbuttoned his robe to make himself more comfortable. 'And how do you intend to solve the riddle?'

His companion refilled his tumbler. 'I'll take a closer look at people's private lives. Who has money problems? Who would stand in for the other? After all, a dragon egg is nothing you carry around in your trouser pocket, and because of its magic resistance, you can't shrink it either…'

'So you suspect there are two culprits. Sounds indeed very likely.' Åge fed a new chunk of wood to the flames. 'Why only one sack, then?'

His companion smirked cynically. 'Because I can't afford losing men. Unless they planned everything together, of course. If one just turned a blind eye on the matter, I'll have to let him get off with just a warning. You _know_ the working conditions are too hard to attract many suited candidates.'

'Sweden has more recruits,' Åge annotated.

'Sweden has a larger wizarding population and therefore better living conditions. We've been there already, Åge. People like to floo home to their families in the evening, and they like to raise their children in nice neighbourhoods with white fences and some shops. If we founded a town in Romania, a nice Hogsmeade or Mytèrle-like wizarding community…' Reg's voice drifted off.

Åge leaned forward. 'What's hit you, now?' he asked with a knowing smile on his face. 'We've been through this – people don't like living near dragons.'

His companion leaned back, a smug expression on his face. 'Not near dragons, no. Not in the existent settlement. But what about, say, fifty miles away? There are no exclusive wizarding settlements in Romania because people dreaded the dragons. Few dared live in the country, and they preferred scattering to avoid creating areas with a strong magical aura since they would attract dragons. These days, however, people only stay away because of Romania's _reputation_. The dragons have long since been almost wiped out by the Muggles – note the irony of that.

'If we founded a wizarding village, complete with inn, shopping district, and so forth, it might make working in Romania more attractive in the long run.'

Åge nodded reluctantly. 'You mean, your men could floo to work from there.' Flooing could not be done over long distances, long distance Apparation was a feat mastered by few, and portkeying was too strenuous to do it several times a day. 'The work would still be hard, of course, but they'd have a more comfortable life when they came home.'

Reg nodded. 'Presently, you've got to be quite the ascetic up there. It's no big surprise that a third of my men swing the other way – which girl wants to live under these circumstances? –Apart from Conny and Adriana, and those two are a little…' He cleared his throat. 'Ten of my men have women and children living abroad. Giving them the opportunity to build a real home for their families would definitely improve their work ethics.'

'…and be a good model for future applicants,' Åge supplemented.

The wizard seated opposite him inclined his head.

Åge gazed into the fire and made his decision. 'Fine. Draw up a concept, and we'll see if it's doable.'

* * *

><p>.~*~.<p>

* * *

><p>About fifty people of European wizard society paid their respect to the young couple at Agnetha and Søren's wedding. Although it was April already, the air was still chilly, but the sky was painted in a clear blue, and so the ceremony was held in the big, almost park-like garden of Søren's parents.<p>

Of course, Viola was one of the bridesmaids. It was a joyful day, a promising day, a door to a potentially brighter future. The association with the Blåblods restored their social reputation, and since it made the Blåblods appear in a bad light to have the mother of their daughter-in-law work a job below her social standing, they had found Viola's mother a more acceptable (and therefore better paid) employment as well. That, in turn, meant that Viola could take up her violin lessons again. In short, life was on the upswing, and Viola could only hope it remained that way.

.~*~.

They had charmed a huge stone lid onto the pond in the middle of the moated castle's courtyard, and on that flagstone, a big bonfire sizzled, now. It was close to ten in the evening, and still the sun fought with the moon for the reign over the sky. It was Midsummer's Eve, and the spicy scent of a roasted wild boar over the fire wafted through the air and made the mouths of the people that were present water.

Midsummer's Eve was the most important date of the year for the brotherhood. It was the only event for which the usual working schedules were interrupted. Only a handful of people took care of the dragon breed and flew occasional rounds in Romania tonight. Forty-five of the fifty dragon keepers of Reg's reservation were in Denmark, and it was similar with the other reservations.

The celebration of the summer solstice was, however, not such a semi-refined event as the Jul fest. Paying credit to the more ancient roots of celebrating the longest day of the year, Åge gladly skipped the cultural programme and immediately started the feast.

At two hours before midnight, everyone had had their fill of meat, smørrebrød, and potato salad and was nuzzling a strong drink. Åge and Reg locked eyes and the elder one nodded at his fugleman.

Reg climbed onto a rock, blew off a sharp whistle and called out for his men to gather. Naturally, a few more curious people joined them. Just as they had intended.

When everyone seemed present and the murmur had abated, Reg started speaking aloud. 'There are two matters we have to discuss with you tonight. One will be to your liking, or so we hope' – joined in a mysterious smile with Åge – 'the other one, in turn, is not so… edifying.'

'Notice how he uses all these elaborate words all of a sudden when he's around the boss?' Charlie murmured into Gerd's ear with a wink. Gerd grinned and nodded.

'Shall we start with the uncomfortable news?' The question was obviously rhetorical, so that apart from a few people's nervous shifting, Reg received no response. The man leaned leisurely, his arms folded, against a nearby tree. 'Some of you have undoubtedly noticed that they haven't been scheduled for shifts at the nursery. Ilija even came to me to complain about it.' Reg made an apologising gesture with his arms. 'Sorry guys, but I had my reasons.

'Of course, everybody noticed the arrival of an infant Norwegian Ridgeback in May, that was imported right out of the heart of Scotland, courtesy of Mr. Weasley's contacts.'

Some clapping and cheering disrupted the speech.

'That indeed was a happy event. The only trouble is, that little creature presumably stemmed from an egg that had been stolen out of our very own nursery in February.'

A loud murmur rose amongst the dragon keepers. A stolen egg? 'Have you heard of this before?' people asked each other.

'Back then, I kept the matter quiet, in agreement with Åge. I knew during which night the egg had disappeared, but I did not know in which shift. Neither could I be sure whether it was the act of a single person or a combined effort.'

'And now you know?' someone shouted impatiently.

Reg frowned. 'I know. I also know why. Therefore I will offer the opportunity to come to me to out a solution together. You have until the day after tomorrow.'

Åge stepped up to him. 'Now that we've dealt with this, we would like to discuss some plans with you…' He elaborated on the idea that Reg had had four months previous, describing in detail what they intended to establish. The head of the reservation had found a nice spot of land that was fell suited. He had drawn up plans detailing how many community houses would be needed at the beginning for the dragon keepers that shared housings with their colleagues, how many families had to be reckoned with, and what other facilities would be needed. Those were numerous. To ensure certain comfort of living, paved streets were needed, as well as a public meeting place (a pub or café), shops, an owl office, and a park or playground. One also had to consider special services – a mediwizard, public security. Following that thought, a village or town was not a private venture. It needed public administration.

After some initial scepticism, people warmed up to the idea. Most males merely listened attentively, considering what was proposed to them with interest; the few females that accompanied their husbands, on the other hand, grasped the opportunities this project offered them more quickly, and some of them started whispering amongst each other or to their husbands.

'All of that will have to be discussed, of course,' Reg argued when Åge finished. 'This project is at a very early stage and will require your commitment. You are welcome to join a team that will have to work out the details. Only if you truly want this will we proceed. What do you say?'

A low murmur went through the crowd, but no one spoke up. Until one of the women shouted for an election. 'Hands up who thinks this is a great idea!' Some hands rose slowly, others shot up. In the end, hardly anyone had not raised their hand.

Reg nodded in acceptance of the approving vote. 'As it always does in all matters, my office is open for you and your suggestions. Again, I hope some of you are willing to spend time and energy on planning the project. That includes the ladies.' He saw enthusiastic gleams in some eyes. 'Please consider it and come to me when you've made up your mind.'

* * *

><p>The following morning, Reg sat at the table in his office in one of the comfy armchairs and ate breakfast when the door was opened and one of his men stepped in. 'Morning,' Reg greeted him and sipped his pitch black coffee. 'You're early.' He leaned back comfortably and stretched out his legs. It was quite usual for people to use his office at will to look up their scheduled shifts. The dragon keeper seemed mildly irritated by Reg's relaxed state. 'Coffee?' His boss offered.<p>

The dragon keeper stood irresolutely near the door and murmured his consent.

Reg rose and walked over to the kitchen corner where he seized a mug and poured the hot drink. 'D'you want to discuss the settlement project?' he asked when he handed over the coffee and motioned for the dragon keeper to take a seat.

Completely perplexed, the man sidled to the chair. He eyed his boss uncertainly while said man continued consuming his scrambled eggs. 'I come because of the other thing you mentioned last night,' he mumbled.

Reg put down his fork and leaned back, placing his arm on the backrest of the armchair. 'Do you, Vasil?'

Realisation hit the dragon keeper: the boss was playing him. He refused to reach out for him but expected him to come clean without further prompt. He cleared his throat. 'I was the one who took the egg.'

'You mean you were the one who _stole_ the egg and risked the survival of a rare species for your own personal interests,' Reg corrected calmly.

Vasil sighed. 'Yes. But I did it for my sister. She was sick and would've died without the services of a special mediwizard, and her husband couldn't afford him…'

'And what other ways of acquiring money did you strike before you decided on thievery?' Reg asked strictly.

Vasil looked desperate. 'I asked around in all the family and sought help with friends, but…' his voice broke off and he paused for some time. As the silence dragged, he spoke again. 'Listen, I know I've abused your trust. I didn't want to, but I saw no alternative.'

Reg's sharp gaze lingered a little longer on him; then he nodded. 'I appreciate that you don't try to weasel your way out, even though the confession comes rather late.'

An anxious look was directed his way. 'What will be the consequences?'

'I am sure you know them already,' Reg answered calmly. 'No matter your motives, I cannot ignore such behaviour.'

Vasil's shoulders sagged and he put his head in his hands.

Reg put his dishes away. When he sat down once more and crossed his legs, he enquired, 'You are engaged to that barmaid of the Hinkypunk in Budapest, aren't you?' Vasil's head moved minutely in what supposedly was a nod. 'Remember that I said I was willing to find a solution with you if you came to me on your own?'

Vasil looked up.

Reg leaned forward. 'I can't let you work with dragons any longer. Not because I think you're a notorious thief but because I need to make sure everybody knows the consequences of such behaviour. But you could be involved in the new project. And eventually, you and your future wife could run the pub or café or whatever establishment will be decided upon, if you're interested.'

'I don't have the money to afford a pub,' Vasil objected.

'I know. And I also know that it will take some time before the establishment will make profits. But our business is profitable enough. I have discussed the matter with Åge, and he agrees that a good working atmosphere and thus a better motivation of our workers is worth the investment. We'll give you two years before you'll have to start to pay back the money for the house. Work as hard and with as much dedication as you have so far, and you should have no problems.'

Vasil exhaled loudly and seemed lost in contemplation. 'Think about it,' his boss said patiently. 'Talk it through with your fiancé. Ask yourself if you'll be able to see your former colleagues day in and day out, hear them talk about the dragons, without being allowed to work with them yourself anymore. I think it's a fair offer, and I'm sure people would love to have someone that knows their business run the pub they visit each night. But I'll respect it if you say you'd rather make a completely new start.'

Vasil nodded absent-mindedly. 'Thank you.'

The door that Charlie had initially assumed to lead to Reg's private quarters at his first visit in the boss' office was in fact the entrance to the gym, where the dragon keepers could exercise both their physical strength and their magical skills. He almost always found a sparring partner there, no matter what time of day it was. This afternoon, he won the lottery, so to speak: Reg was in the mood to cross wands with him. Unfortunately, duelling the guy was a hopelessly lost cause. Charlie was pretty quick with the wooden stick and could do a bit of wordless magic as well, but he felt powerless when Reg chose to show him up. Usually, the about ten years older man gave Charlie a fair chance in the beginning, but each time the second of the Weasley boys thought he had his boss cornered, he was slithering out of the tight spot like a snake. And Charlie was quite certain that Reg held back even then. The wizard was not to be underestimated. Every once in a while, he came up with a spell Charlie had never seen or heard of before.

It had grown late when Charlie threw a Stinging Hex at Reg and was mindful enough to jump quickly aside because the other man easily deflected it. Before Reg could hex back, an owl flew in through an open window and interrupted them by settling down on Charlie's shoulder and stretching out a leg. It was Errol, the Weasley family owl.

'Shall we call it quits for today?' Reg suggested.

Charlie agreed while he untied the scroll of parchment.

'Care for a beer? The Muggle alcoholic version, I mean, not _butterbeer_?' Reg pronounced butterbeer as if talking about bubotuber pus.

'Sounds good,' replied Charlie. He followed the other man into the office to take a seat. He caught the towel that Reg threw at him and wiped off the sweat film that the hours of duelling had left on his skin. He took a gulp of the spicy drink that his boss handed him, savouring the foreign flavour. German Muggle beer was in fashion amongst the dragon keepers, perhaps due to the large percentage of halfbloods and muggleborns amongst them. In the rest of the wizarding world – as far as Charlie knew it – the drink was unknown.

For a while, they sat in silence. Charlie read the letter, and Reg had grabbed the latest newspaper. There always rested a heap of those on the table in the sitting area, coming from all over Europe. Quite handy, because that way each dragon keeper could keep up with the news of his home country.

'Fuck,' it escaped Charlie. Not that he felt the need to hold back with his language amongst his colleagues.

Reg looked up at his exclamation. 'Anything wrong?'

Charlie quickly finished skimming the letter. 'It's a letter from my father,' he explained. His parents had visited the reservation with Reg's leave over Christmas the previous year, but he himself had been absent at the time. 'My youngest brother has started going to Hogwarts last year and has befriended Harry Potter there. You know, the one who-'

Reg wiped the rest of Charlie's sentence away with a swish of his hand. 'Yes yes. So what?'

'Well, it seems the boy has seen You-Know-Who. Even fought him! I thought he was dead…'

Reg folded his newspaper and put it down, his face darkening. 'It seems?'

Charlie shrugged. 'Only Potter has seen him. My father writes that You-Know-Who has somehow lived in the body of a teacher and tried to steal the Philosopher's Stone with his help. Potter, my brother, and a friend of theirs have tried to stop him.'

Reg furrowed his brows. 'Tried?'

'And succeeded. My brother was injured when they attempted to pass the security measures that were supposed to protect the Stone, but Potter went on, faced down You-Know-Who, and defeated him somehow.'

'Defeated?' the other man asked sceptically. His sharp interest in the matter made Charlie wonder about him once more. But in the end it was only natural to be interested in the whereabouts and makings of the darkest wizard alive, was it not?

'Not exactly defeated, or so Dumbledore thinks. According to my father, Dumbledore thinks Potter has just weakened him, taken away the body that he resided in, but that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will come back at some time. Though I don't know how he's doing it. Father writes that Dumbledore appears just as clueless.'

* * *

><p>Reg's heart beat faster and his mind worked frantically. The Dark Lord alive! It choked him. He had thought that after he had had Kreacher destroy the Horcrux, the Dark Lord must have been killed during that famed Halloween night in 1981. The only reason why he had kept his new identity, why he had not returned to England, were the remaining league of Death Eaters that most certainly would not welcome him back with open arms.<p>

To now hear that the Dark Lord was still alive meant that Regulus had made a huge mistake. He had underestimated his opponent. Pulling a one man act had been immature, foolish. Had he been caught in the act at the time, no one would have been the wiser.

'So the great wizard is going to sit quietly and wait for the mouse to leave its hole?' he asked with a cynical note in his voice.

Charlie shrugged.

'Well, it's comforting to know that _everything's under control_ and no dark wizards walk about right under Dumbledore's nose unnoticed for months. Or years, as in Grindelwald's case.' With that, Reg disappeared behind his newspaper once more, pretending to peruse the pages while in reality he considered his options. He did not see himself as the brave, selfless hero who dedicated his life to defeating the bad wizard. He led a life that he valued amongst people that he respected and (in some cases) cared about. Secretly, his mind had even started making plans for his future. Regulus was disinclined to give all that up. Nevertheless, it was in his interest that someone took care of that fork-tongued wizard. Who knew how far the Dark Lord's influence would spread once he had regained power? Reg could not risk idleness. He had to act, had to push some buttons, pass on the necessary information.

Charlie looked at him intently for a few moments, probably puzzled by his reaction. At a quarter to ten, the young man took his leave.

A quarter to ten in Romania meant that it was a quarter to nine in Central Europe. The owl office in Belgium was open until ten. Regulus fetched his travelling cloak and portkeyed to Denmark (he had a permanent Portkey, activated by a password, for the many times he travelled forth and back between Denmark and Romania). There, he applied several glamour charms that hid his true identity before he Apparated to a small wizarding settlement in Belgium. He was lucky and found a young boy (aged twelve, perhaps) who followed him willingly to the owl office. The boy retrieved parchment and quill, and then he sat down to write what Reg dictated for a bit of pocket money. The message held only nine letters that made little sense to the boy. He scribbled down the address he was given and handed in the scroll to have it delivered by express owl.

.~*~.

Albus Dumbledore sat in a quiet corner of the Three Broomsticks, nursing a mug of Madam Rosmerta's oak-matured mead and contemplating the events of the last school year. So it was as he had feared – Lord Voldemort was still alive. Dumbledore had always deemed this possible, even likely. In consequence he had made sure that Severus Snape remained safe and ready at his side should the moment arise when the headmaster needed a spy in Riddle's ranks once more, but this once, Albus Dumbledore, who thought of himself as rather smart and experienced (and liked this thought), would have preferred to err. Yes, he would gladly have been mistaken. Not that it would have been the first time in his life, but it would have been pleasant for once.

The questions that posed themselves, now, were how this twisted character managed to cling to life and how he was to be defeated. There was an answer to the latter: the prophecy. Yet the prophecy was too vague to set the headmaster's mind at ease. It did not say 'Harry Potter will defeat the Dark Lord'. There was a lot to be prepared to pave the way for the boy's success.

The fire in the fireplace of the Three Broomsticks flared up and turned green. A moment later, Minerva McGonagall emerged from the flames. Perched on her arm was a big snowy owl. The two of them stepped up to his table. 'Albus,' Minerva greeted him, 'this bird strayed through the castle. Its delivery is addressed to you.'

Quite glad of a little distraction, the elderly man invited his deputy to join him at the table and called for Rosmerta to bring them another drink and some owl treats. Curious as to the provenance of the bird, he eyed the ring around its thin leg while he untied the scroll of parchment that was attached to it. The owl came from Belgium. Now Albus Dumbledore grew even more curious. He did not remember having any friends or acquaintances in Belgium. In France? Yes, of course. Also in Germany. Some renowned wizards lived in the Netherlands with which he corresponded regularly, one also in Luxemburg, but neither of them used birds from owl offices. They had very fine birds of their own. Belgium? He mentally shook his head. No one came to his mind. And whatever some people suspected because of his advanced age (now, actually one hundred and eleven years was no age for a wizard, was it?), Albus Dumbledore's mind was still as sharp as it had ever been.

'Now, Albus,' Minerva pulled him out of his contemplations, 'are you going to sit here dreaming all night, or are you going to read your mail?'

He sent her an apologising smile and unrolled the small piece of parchment. The content of the letter astonished him as much as did its origin. Or the lack thereof. It was unsigned. Neither was there a polite address. It held but nine letters, each placed on the parchment independently from the other as if they had nothing to do with each other whatsoever. Yet they had. They formed a word. A word that Albus Dumbledore did not care for. That on his instructions had been banned from the school library. Even though he treasured the freedom of knowledge, there were things of which the youthful mind needed protection, and by which some elder minds remained best left untouched as well. In short, there were things that caused nothing but harm. There might have been a time when his younger self had been tempted to disagree with things that life had taught Albus Dumbledore in the course of time, but even in his most foolish hour he would not have mistaken these things for anything but what they were. And that there was an eighth and a ninth letter completing the word scared the powerful wizard more than the basic idea the word held.

'H O R C R U X E S' was scribbled on the piece of parchment. Not singular, not just 'horcrux'. No, it spoke of more than one. And its timing, a mere week after Tom Riddle's reappearance, did not leave much room for speculation on what it was referring to. Even though for the second time in one evening the headmaster wished to be mistaken. However, it fit too well. It should have crossed his mind earlier. Now that it had been pointed out to the aged wizard, it was the only plausible explanation of why Lord Voldemort was able to exist without a body. He had done the unthinkable. Even more so, he had, if Dumbledore believed the scrawl on a piece of parchment whose origin remained in the dark – and he was inclined to do so -, done what no other man had dared. He had created more than one horcrux. Would a man capable of maiming his soul twice shrink from doing it a third time? The message gave no answer to that.

The headmaster noticed a shadow creep closer to the parchment and looked up to see Minerva shift to read over his shoulder. He snatched the letter away with a pointed glare.

Irritated by his uncommunicative behaviour, the deputy headmistress took her leave again, half of her drink staying behind. Dumbledore was too distracted to worry about his colleague's demeanour. He was already deciding that he needed to find the sender of the missive, needed to learn if the person knew more, and how he had come to this knowledge.

Dumbledore Apparated to the Belgian owl office the next morning (after eating breakfast in Brighton, since it lay on the way). The clerk could indeed remember the small, elderly man that had dictated a letter right in the office to a local boy. However, the trace led to a dead end. And Albus knew that already before he had located the boy. At no point had the addressor touched the parchment, worked his magic on it, or left any other trace of himself. He had been most careful. It was obvious that he did not want to be found. Dumbledore was certain that the man had altered his appearance as well. Perhaps _he_ was even a _she_.

The interview of the boy only confirmed the headmasters' assumptions. The boy had never seen his sponsor before. He called him Monsieur Mitterrand and said he had talked with him in fluent French. All that told Dumbledore was that the other witch or wizard had some basic knowledge of Muggle politics – François Mitterrand was the present president of France, after all. He had to face the truth: as long as his secret informant intended to stay anonymous, he would be exactly that. Not even a knowledgeable and influential wizard as Albus Dumbledore was going to discover his identity or whereabouts.

Deeply troubled, the white-haired man started his return journey.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Notes concerning Chapter 7<strong>_

I have never had a single lesson in Latin. My poor attempts at making up spells are aided by online dictionaries that, however, do not tell me how to correctly form the imperative. I beg your forgiveness (or help) in the matter. Revelo = form of revelare, which means 'reveal'. Anima = life.

On Dumbledore's age: in several fan fictions Dumbledore is reported to be 152 years old in 1996. In the HP Lexicon and on Wikipedia, however, his birth year is given as 1881. Seeing how old he appears in HBP, I think it's plausible that he's at the end of a wizard's lifespan (ca. 150); therefore 152 sounds more plausible. Due to the statement that Dumbledore was born in 1881, however, my Dumbledore is only 111 (in 1992).

Oh yes, and I've met some plot bunnies. I'm also awfully busy with RL, but I'm sure you'll find a way to motivate me to write...


	8. A night in society

****DISCLAIMER : The characters and some events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.****

* * *

><p><strong>8: A night in society<strong>

_(August 1992)_

Viola's sixteenth birthday was the first in years that she could enjoy without hesitation. She was woken by golden rays of sun that streamed through the window and flooded her room. On the stool next to her bed, she found a set of new clothes, a rather expensive looking robe in light green amongst them that, when she tried it on, accented the female parts of her body a little more than her old garments did. If it had been for her, Viola would have kept it on all day. Such as it was, she knew her mother would disagree. It was not a robe for everyday life; it was meant for special occasions.

Just when the girl had changed into suiting garments and wanted to go down for breakfast, there was a sound on her window outside. Since she rarely received mail, it took Viola a moment to realise that an owl was perched on the window sill and knocked its beak against the glass. When she opened the window, the bird fluttered in with a small parcel attached to its leg. Viola detached it carefully and offered the owl a few biscuit crumps that were left over from the previous evening. The bird, however, clicked its beak in what she supposed was indignation and lifted off. The birthday child sat down with the parcel. Came it from Agnetha? That would be strange. After all, she had promised to come by in the evening. Yet perhaps she had wanted her sister to have the present in advance?

On a whim, Viola performed a _Revelio_ – why did they learn those precaution charms at school if she didn't use them? It revealed nothing, of course. Who would send _her_ a cursed object? Smiling at her own immaturity, she peeled the wrapping paper off. Inside, she found a piece of soft tissue. Enveloped in it was a golden hair comb inset with red rubies. It was old-fashioned, florid, not quite after her taste. Still, Viola immediately associated it with the other present she had received little over a year before. The violin. Her dearest possession. Did this come from the same person? It had certainly been expensive, too. There was a note, this time, but all it said was 'Happy Birthday' in a large, loopy hand.

Viola went down to her mother who sat at the breakfast table. When she showed her the comb, her mother's face grew stern. 'Viola, are you meeting anyone?' Her gaze was emphasised by the probing look an aged ancestor threw at Viola from a portrait through his monocle over her mother's shoulder.

Pushing away the thought of a certain dragon keeper that she had spent quite a few thoughts on during the past eight months since their last encounter (stupid her), Viola took on a stance of indignation. 'Mor! Of course not!'

Her mother's gaze did not ease. 'No man gives away presents without a purpose,' she stated. Indeed, she had been very suspicious of the instrument when Viola had returned from school with it the previous summer. In fact, she had asked around everywhere to find out about the generous sponsor without her daughter's knowledge, but her efforts had not carried any fruits. 'Don't you have any idea who could be sending you these gifts?'

Viola sat down and took a piece of toast while shaking her head. She knew who she wanted them to be from, but that thought was absurd. Totally out of the question. Although… perhaps he was truly taken with her music and wanted to support her? But why the golden hair comb, then? –It did not make sense.

'Thank you for the robes,' Viola said after a moment. 'They're gorgeous!' Despite her mother's reaction to the other present, the girl smiled at her to demonstrate her gratefulness. Her mother deserved it.

And she returned the smile warmly. 'The Nyhavns are giving a ball the next week-end, and it would be good for you to attend. You need to be properly introduced into society to find a good match.'

'Oh.' Viola could not pinpoint why, but her mood dropped at these words. Being introduced into society… Somehow, Viola did not care for that. Ever since Reg had made _that_ comment, she had started seeing the old social traditions with more critical eyes. She was good in school. In two of her subjects – Potions and Herbology – she was even on top of her class. Lately, the desire of actually pursuing a career had grown in her. Her mother's fate had taught her not to rely too much on other people, to learn to stand on her own two feet.

To live like her sister did, now? It looked tempting, at first glance, but Viola wondered what Agnetha was doing all day. Søren and she had no children yet, and he was working all day while she stayed at home… No, Viola felt that she needed a purpose in life, needed something she could be proud of.

Of course she wanted to have a family, but she wanted to choose her husband and not have him chosen because of his pedigree. She wanted him to love _her_, not her bloodline. Was she a dreamer? She was not sure. But at present, she did not feel like becoming part of a society that certainly would laugh at her concept of life.

At Beauxbatons Viola had estranged herself from her old friends because she did not join in their talks about boys and marriage prospects. Sometimes she joined the more 'modern' girls (often, though not always, coming from mixed or Muggle households), but she could not really fit in with them either. She was too influenced by the old ways, was regarded by them as old-fashioned. Her noble reticency had been mistaken for arrogance or a complete lack of character many times. The 'modern' girls were loud, self-confident, and goofy. They did not seek to retain their composure; they simply walked and talked and expressed their feelings with almost no reserve, or so it appeared to her.

While Viola sank into these thoughts and her mother watched her intently, a small owl, one of those that were used for local mail delivery by the owl offices, fluttered in through the French window that led to the small garden in the back of their house. It landed on Mrs. Søgaard's armrest. The lady in her early forties opened the letter.

_Dear Mrs Søgaard,_ it read,

i_I had the pleasure of listening to your daughter Viola's captivating virtuosity on the violin twice in the last year and would, with your permission, like for her to accompany me to the concert of _Bruno Brushoved og de danske tryllefløjter _this evening. I believe listening to other contemporary artists will be beneficial for her musical development, and I hope she will enjoy it, in case she is inclined to join me._

_I kindly await your answer._

_Sincerely, Régis Mørkscov._

'Mørkscov… Is that not this dark wizard that lives in the north? What do you have to do with a person like that?' Viola's mother pondered aloud.

Her daughter looked at her with a lack of understanding. 'I don't know anyone with that name,' she claimed. Mrs. Søgaard handed her the missive. After skimming it, realisation dawned on Viola. Her heart beat faster. 'Oh, Reg! I didn't know his last name. He was at the julefest at which we played in December. The one at the moated castle.' No need to tell her mother that the two of them had met earlier already. She would only misinterpret that.

'You met men during the fest? I thought you have been there to make music?' her mother asked suspiciously.

'Of course we have!' assured Viola. 'But afterwards, during dinner, I talked a little with Reg. He likes my music, and he told me about his occupation.' Again, Viola was bending the truth a little, which she did not delight in, but her mother needed not to know that Reg and she had been alone during their conversation. As it was, her mother was already needlessly worried enough.

'Do you not wonder why a man of his age – from what I hear, Mr. Mørkscov is at least fifty – is interested in a girl like you?' enquired her mother.

Viola ogled at her mother. 'Fifty? –No. Reg can't be more than thirty-five. And he's married. He and his wife have a small child. Please, mor, can I go?'

Her mother remained silent for a while. 'I want to talk with him first,' she stated finally. 'I can't let you go out with a stranger.' She wrote an according reply and sent the owl off.

* * *

><p>After tea with her aunt and grandparents, Mrs. Søgaard took her nervous daughter home to let her dress for the evening. Viola did not know what exactly her mother had written to Reg. Would he come if a full-blown interrogation awaited him? Who liked to be questioned just because he was kind enough to invite someone?<p>

Ten minutes before Reg was supposed to come and fetch her, Viola still fumbled with shaking hands in her hair. Huffing, she gave it up and ran down the stairs to beg her mother for help. Just when a knock resounded from the door, Mrs. Søgaard had put up her daughter's hair in an elaborate tangle of braids.

Trying desperately not to show her mother how nervous she was, Viola peered through the open door of the drawing room to see what happened in the small entrance hall. Reg wore a rather strict, high-necked, dark green robe that made him look very dignified and presented her mother with a small box. Whatever its contents, he had certainly made an important step to win her over, if her beaming smile was any indication. Viola rarely saw her like that these days. The two adults exchanged a few polite words, and then her mother offered to move to the drawing room for a cup of tea. As if on clue, a pop broke the silence in the room behind Viola, and a house elf set a tray on the table. Apparently her mother had gone to such lengths as to ask her sister for help by lending her a servant.

'Miss Søgaard,' Reg greeted her in a warm tone of his dark voice.

She smiled at him, drinking in his appearance while at the same time telling herself to pull herself together. She was no more than a child to him and had to accept it.

The three of them took seats, and Mrs. Søgaard engaged Reg in harmless chatting about his professional occupation. A few minutes into the conversation, her enquiries turned to more sensitive matters. 'May I ask why you intend to spend the evening with my daughter instead of taking your wife with you?' Despite Mrs. Søgaard's gentle tone and the amicable atmosphere, Viola was sure that Reg recognised the suspicion behind this question. The girl wondered if it was not impolite to ask so bluntly, even though her mother had been brought up very strictly and certainly knew every aspect of social etiquette by heart.

'My wife?' Reg asked in mild surprise, his gaze drifting from Mrs. Søgaard to her daughter and back. 'I'm not married.'

Viola felt her mother's eyes on herself. 'But the child on your lap during our concert in December…,' she objected.

Amusement entered Reg's face. 'Ah, I see. That was my father's child. He has married rather late, and his wife is only a few years older than I am, which might have misled you to believe she was mine.' Still retaining a smile, Reg stirred his tea, balanced the tip of the spoon on the rim of the cup to allow for the last droplets of fluid to run off, and put it down on the saucer. 'To answer your enquiry of what brings me here,' he continued, 'I am in town for business, and I often use such stays to visit a concert, an opportunity of which I'm deprived while working in Romania. Since it is summer and I knew your daughter must be back from school, I thought that I might do her a favour by inviting her along.' He added, 'I freely admit that such evenings are more enjoyable in company for me as well.'

'You spoke of your father. I was wondering about your family name already. It is quite well-known…,' Mrs. Søgaard prompted her visitor to explain. She had gained a sharpness in manner and thinking since her husband had abandoned her that Viola could not recall from her earlier days of childhood.

He nodded. 'My father is well known indeed. He owns a large enterprise and is a learned man.'

Once more, Mrs. Søgaard was not easily appeased and pressed on. 'A learned man in the Dark Arts, people say,' she commented. Viola felt that in the face of a truly dark wizard such conduct would be foolhardy.

Régis received the allegations with a calm demeanour and leaned back in his seat. 'People gossip a lot and know very little. I will not deny that he is a knowledgeable man on the mentioned field as well – to know what he's dealing with in the face of it, not to mindlessly utilise it himself. When it comes to the Dark Arts, he, and I alongside him, is _very_ cautious, be assured of that.' He retrieved his pocket watch. 'We should go soon if we want to be there on time.'

Viola eyed her mother expectantly. When the woman nodded and rose, she jumped up to fetch her travelling coat. With the promise that Viola was going to be returned before eleven, Reg and Viola left the house. He offered her his arm. Even though in Scandinavia minors were not generally forbidden to use magic as long as an adult carried the responsibility of making sure they hid it from Muggles, he proposed to side-along-Apparate her. Flattered by the attention he paid her, she accepted the offer and hesitantly wound her arm around his. Holding her hand tightly, he spun around, and they disappeared.

Despite the limited number of Danish wizards, or perhaps because of it, the _København tryllerioperahus_ was a huge Prunkbau, the largest building for cultural events in the whole Scandinavian wizard society. Viola looked up in awe at the huge columns of the eighteenth century building as they ascended the broad marble stairs. 'An attempt at the grandeur that Danish wizard kind otherwise lacked in comparison to other countries at the time,' Reg remarked.

'Yes, it was built on orders of King Christian VII., wasn't it?' Viola remembered having read about it once.

'It was,' confirmed Reg. 'The Muggles still believe the King of Denmark and Norway was mentally ill. In his time, he was only nominally king. In truth, the reign lay in the hands of his stepmother and later in the hands of his son. Christian's problem was that he was a Muggle-born wizard, doomed to be representative of people that did not recognise his talent for what it was and shunned him because of his strange behaviour. He yielded to his fate and played the mindless monarch for them, but secretly, he led a double life. To make up for his failure in the Muggle world, he sought grandeur in wizarding society. Not an easy feat as a Muggle-born at the time.'

'It would not be an easy feat today either,' Viola reckoned. They had reached the cloakroom, and Reg helped the girl (that for the first time felt like the young woman that she truly was) out of her travelling robe.

'Not in Denmark, no. But from what I see in other countries, and especially from what I hear from Britain and America, the social order is in the process of changing.'

'Perhaps that is better so,' Viola commented. She meant it as well, although she would not have dared expressing a different opinion. Now that she knew who Reg's father was, she knew that Reg was no pureblood. The story about the scandal of the only Mørkscov heir marrying a Muggleborn was still a favourite topic of gossip at pureblood tea parties, even though the affair had happened in the 1920ies. 'All this worrying of pedigree and producing a pureblood heir… it drives people to treating each other with coldness and disrespect.'

Reg handed their travelling cloaks to the property man and gently directed her towards the stairs that led further up to loges. 'I agree that there are some disadvantages of the old ways,' he joined in the topic, 'but they hold much good as well. They shield us from Muggle influences that in the long run will erase our culture, and thus perhaps will make us forget much of our knowledge. It has started already. The old pureblood lines slowly diminish. Those that are still left desperately try to secure their continuity and sometimes take drastic measures to achieve this goal. What you experience as negative sides of the pureblood tradition these days are in many cases in fact merely the desperate struggles of the old ways for survival.'

Viola eyed her companion in surprise. She had not expected him to speak in favour of the society that she had come to regard with scepticism because of remarks he had made. He seemed so modern, independent. How could he defend a society that put its members in such tight corsets? 'I don't think it's right to subordinate a family's welfare for such reasons,' she said finally, keeping her remark purposefully unspecific.

Reg grasped the true meaning of her words all the same. 'I do not condone what your father has done,' replied he. 'All I wanted was for you to see the cause behind such behaviour. You know that our social etiquette condemns it in the harshest of terms. He has lost face forever.'

Viola felt uncomfortable discussing her father's conduct. She had not thought that Reg knew about it. She felt small and ashamed.

Her companion stopped in front of a curtain above which an engraving in a wooden beam showed his family name. He lifted the heavy drapery and beckoned for her to step into the loge. At the sight of the huge hall, she forgot her uneasiness.

There were five levels, each holding dozens of loges. The wavering light of hundreds of fairies illuminated the moving images of dragons and unicorns that flew and galloped over the ceiling. When Viola stepped up to the balustrade of the loge's balcony, she looked down on a sea of hundreds of people that talked animatedly amongst each other while they took their seats in the pit.

When Viola took the seat next to Reg's, her gaze wandered over the many loges on the other side of the hall. It was hard to tell from such a distance, but she thought she saw a classmate of hers, and a level above her Agnetha's parents in law. A thought struck the girl. 'Is there a meaning behind the sitting arrangements? Or can you choose your loge freely?' enquired she.

'No; you cannot,' Reg explained willingly. 'The higher your loge, the higher your rank in society. Down in the pit there is the "simple" folk' – Reg pronounced 'simple' in a way that let her know he was not meaning it in a derisive way – 'then follow the impoverished pureblood families, and these days also the occasional halfblood upstart. The further up someone is seated, the more ancient their family is, although misdeeds can have a negative influence.'

Viola tried to find more familiar faces. 'What happens when someone from a highly ranked family misbehaves severely?'

'That depends,' Reg answered while he scanned the tiers as well. 'If he or she is disowned, the family's reputation would remain relatively untouched. Of course there would be gossiping, but they would keep their faces. Yet by standing by the offender, they would drop in the social order and thus also lose their loge in the high ranks here as well. It happened to the Mørkscovs eighty years ago. Up until then, we sat in the highest rank up there,' he pointed to a loge close to the middle of 'U' that the auditorium formed. Now, they were located on the second level. Still, while listening to conversations of elder people, Viola had often heard them speak of the Mørkscovs with reverence.

'My family does not have seats here, does it?' asked Viola meekly.

Reg shook his head. 'Not anymore. But look into the upper ranks – most loges are empty. Not just because their owners had no time or do not care for music but because they are not owned any longer. The fourth rank his half empty as well. I told you, it's a fate that many old families are befallen by.' He was right. In many loges dark curtains were drawn.

A pop announced the unexpected arrival of a house elf in front of them. Well, Viola had not expected it; Reg seemed perfectly relaxed. 'Master Mørkscov,' it greeted him and bowed. Spotting her, it bowed a second time. 'And Master Mørkscov's lady.' Returning its gaze to Reg, it asked, 'What can Tub do for Master?'

The man turned to Viola. 'Is there anything you would like? A drink, some snacks?'

The 'lady' was insecure. 'Is that seemly?'

Her companion smiled benignly. 'Would the theatre offer such a service otherwise?'

'A drink would be nice,' Viola hurried to reply before her embarrassment in the face of her inexperience grew.

'Shall we make it wine, then?' Reg asked. 'Young ladies usually prefer light, sweet wine. Does that meet your taste as well?'

She nodded.

'Make it two glasses of Italian elderflower whine,' he told the elf, who bowed once more and vanished. His female companion had little knowledge of wine and once more felt the difference in age and experience between them.

For the rest of the time before the concert started, the two of them sat in silence, a state that Reg obviously was not uncomfortable with. The wine that the elf brought them was indeed quite tasty. She sipped it slowly, and with each sip, the tension in her dissipated a little more. Reg would not have bothered inviting her if he were annoyed by her youthful lack of knowledge, would he? Instead he patiently answered her every question. No, she was sure he was not irritated by her. He seemed perfectly at ease, so she should be as well.

Eventually, the curtains lifted, and the audience started applauding. On stage were a large choir of dwarves, a number of percussionists that played on drums made of the shells of fire crabs, and an octet of magic flutes. The vocals of the heavily bearded dwarves (one of them actually carried his long mane as a belt around his belly) sounded like a low rumble coming from the deep, and the percussionists added a sluggish rhythm to it as if a herd of Erumpents were crossing the hall. When the flutes joined in, playing high, fleeting and twittering notes, Viola suddenly felt strangely removed, as if she had been taken by portkey into a primeval forest where she heard the heartbeat of the earth, saw Erumpents move with heavy steps in the undergrowth, and observed little birds flying through the trees and singing their songs.

When after a while the music ended rather abruptly and a break was announced, Viola was confused about the where and when of her existence. It took a moment for her to become fully aware of her surroundings again.

Agnetha's mother-in-law looked down to her. Viola lifted her hand in what she hoped was a graceful wave, and the elderly lady (Søren's parents had had him very late in their lives) nodded curtly back before she averted her gaze.

'Establishing ties?' Reg asked half jestingly, having witnessed the exchange.

'My sister married that lady's son in spring,' Viola justified herself.

'Yes, I'm aware,' her companion commented. 'Still, many people would say that is the sole purpose of these events: seeing and being seen.'

Viola looked at him quizzically.

He smirked meaningfully. 'Well, it seems quite obvious to me. The whole auditorium is determined by the who-is-who of the society, as we have already discussed. Such events are the perfect opportunity to meet important people and to be seen with them. I cannot be sure, but I could well imagine that the reason why your mother put aside her doubts about me tonight was not only to make you happy but also because people will see you, will be reminded of the existence of this healthy, good-looking pureblood girl, and might consider you when they seek a bride for their sons. In short, each time you are seen amongst the high society, sitting in a loge, dancing on a ball, being pretty on a tea party, without arousing negative attention will heighten your chances of marrying well.'

Of course Viola had known that before, but hearing it put into such coldly calculating thoughts… 'My mother gave me this robe this morning so I could go to a ball next week,' she annotated in an upset tone.

'And you look charming in it,' Reg said softly.

Viola averted her gaze.

'She'll die it.'

'Pardon?' asked Viola confusedly.

'She will die it,' Reg repeated. 'For the ball. She'll die it and perform some modifying charms on it so people won't recognise it's the same dress as the one you wore tonight.'

'How do you know?'

Reg's smirk grew mischievous. 'Shall we bet? I must warn you, though, that betting is considered _very_ unseemly! Especially for young ladies.'

Viola snickered. 'What do we bet on? Nothing big, please, for I fear you are going to win…'

'Let me see,' Reg said while his eyes drifted over the audience. 'If I win, we'll play together. It's been years since last I've touched the keys of a piano, so it'll be an utter embarrassment for me, but I'd like to try, and it shouldn't be too hard a feat for you, should it?'

Viola shook her head and smiled. 'And what if I win?'

'In that case, provided that your mother gives us permission, I'll show you the dragons. Does that sound like a deal?'

The girl's face lit up. 'Yes!'

Before she could say more, Reg turned to the stage, where the musicians assembled once more.

* * *

><p>When the last notes faded away, Reg looked at his pocket watch. 'We have half an hour left,' he announced. Offering Viola his arm again, he led her out of the loge and through the crowd. Several people eyed them interestedly. Insecurity made Viola cling tighter to her companion. On the steps in front of the theatre, Reg spun around and Disapparated.<p>

'Miss Søgaard,' he turned to her with an air of saying good bye when they landed on Viola's doorstep, 'thank you for the lovely evening.'

'_I_ have to thank _you_,' Viola returned. In the desperate need of prolonging their time together, she added, 'Since you're such a connoisseur of our society, perhaps you could help me figuring something out?'

Reg raised an eyebrow in silent curiosity.

'This comb,' Viola reached for the back of her head and pulled the golden piece out of her hair, making her long mane tumble down around her shoulders, 'I received it this morning. The note that went along with it carried no signature. What am I to make of that?'

There was this telling smirk on Reg's face as he took the comb from her outstretched hand. 'Well, a comb is a rather personal article. It clearly refers to the hair, which is regarded as a sign of beauty, health, and femininity. The longer and thicker it is, the more attractive a woman is regarded as. For many men, pardon me saying so, it is seductive, which is why it is often tamed through braiding and putting it up.'

Viola blushed at the meaningful look he directed towards her ruined hair dress.

'It seems perfectly obvious that someone has taken an interest in you – as a woman, not as a girl – and this is his message to you declaring his intentions. One _might_ even interpret the choice of an object like a comb, that is meant to tame the wild nature of your hair, as a manner of saying that the giver wishes to "tame" – or shall we say "cage up"? – you. Following this negative train of thoughts, I cannot see why anyone would hide his name when he so obviously is a suitor. One might think he's just toying with you, not respecting you as a person with a mind of her own but rather regarding you as a wild beast that he has to decoy before stepping into the open and catching it.' Reg smiled. 'I'm sure my imagination has gone a little too wild with these last guesses.' He gave her the comb back.

'I hope I did not do any harm with my wild speculations and you sleep peacefully tonight.' He indicated a bow and stepped backwards. 'Oh, and Happy Birthday…' He winked and Disapparated.

Viola stood very still for several moments, gazing at the spot where Reg had vanished. She was a little overwhelmed by all the new ideas he had planted into her head that night. And how had he known it was her birthday?

* * *

><p><em><strong>Notes concerning chapter 8<strong>_

The name Mørkscov (ø is pronounced like the 'u' in 'murky'; the v is pronounced like the double-o in 'school' and set apart from the o): mørk = dark, gloomy, murky; scov = wood/forest  
>By giving Åge and Reg that surname, I gave credit to both their mysterious reputation and the fact that they actually <em>are<em> dealing with dark magic, as well as to their claim of only using it the 'natural' way. It is also continuing a tradition – the 'wald' in Grindelwald is German for 'wood', after all. Incidentally, it is also related to the Mirkwood in J.R.R. Tolkien's works, but that happened by accident.

Bruno Brushoved og de danske tryllefløjter = Bruno Scatterbrain and the Danish magic flutes (a reference to the Mozart opera, of course)

Trylleri = wizardry

København = Copenhagen


	9. Airborne

**9: Airborne**

Reg had not been right after all. At least not completely. His assumption that Viola's mother was not going to let her go out in the same robe twice had proven correct, but instead of modelling the robe into looking different, Mrs. Søgaard lent her youngest daughter one of her own garments. Unsure if Reg actually lived there, Viola sent him a short missive to the castle. Since her mother had the new employment, she was able to pay her daughter a small sum of pocket money, so that she could afford a post owl.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Reg<em>, the letter read,

_Thank you once more for the lovely evening! I like talking to you. Your view on the world is so different from the one I grew up with. It's as if you were thinking more than other people. Although I have been familiar with everything we've discussed, I had the feeling of walking blindly through the world while you were describing to me what surrounded me. I wish I had the gift of sight as well._

_Yet I'm writing this note to tell you that you've been mistaken. Well, not completely – you were right that my mother will not let me wear the green robe to the ball, but she won't die it. I'll be wearing one of hers. I also tried convincing her that now that I've already been seen in society, there's no need for me to go to the event at all, but she wouldn't listen. It seems you were right: she uses every opportunity to show me off, to raise my worth on the brides market. I don't like this. Am I selfish if I say I don't want to marry the highest bidder?_

_Forgive me, I digress. Do you accept defeat? May I see the dragons? I have only a few weeks left before the new school term starts…_

_Yours, Viola._

* * *

><p>Viola did not like the letter. It did not sound right in her mind when she read it. Her style lacked finesse; her tone was that of an overexcited child, but try as she might she failed at writing a better one.<p>

It took two days for Reg's answer to arrive.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Miss Søgaard,<em>

_I hope the ball was enjoyable despite your mother's agenda?_

_Concerning our little attempt at predicting your mother's course of action, I would say that the score is even. We have both neither guessed completely right nor completely wrong. Shall we agree to both have won?_

_This weekend I'm busy, but perhaps next weekend would suit you? Provided that your mother acquiesces. Should she be reluctant to let you go alone, it would be possible for her to accompany you as well. We have a small guest house for visitors. I fear we will lack a piano, but at least I will have the opportunity to settle my depth. I am sure we will have ample time to exchange our world views on this occasion._

_Please let me know your answer._

_R._

* * *

><p>Oh, Viola did. She answered as soon as she had talked to her mother. Intent on 'exchanging worldviews' without a third party involved, she recited Reg's invitation to her mother conveniently not mentioning that it had been issued to her as well. Unfortunately, however, the woman was as suspicious as Reg had foreseen, so that she had to relent and even had a hard time convincing her mother all the same.<p>

It turned out that Viola's mother did not recognise the fascination of seeing a class five dangerous magical creature (only dementors were considered more dangerous) up close. Only when Viola argued that she had never been abroad in all her life (except for her time at school) and that for once she had the chance to return to Beauxbatons with something to tell her schoolmates, did the woman acquiesce.

* * *

><p>.~*~.<p>

* * *

><p>Reg used the string that made their doorbell chime at half past nine o'clock on Saturday morning sharp, setting Viola's mother at unease, for they had not yet cleared the breakfast table despite having suggested that time themselves. Viola was ushered out to welcome their guest (and soon to be host) while her mother sent the dishes soaring through the air towards the sink, where the wash cloth, brush, and tap started cleaning it, and further levitation charms placed jam, butter and so forth back where they belonged.<p>

Viola wrenched the door open and halted then abruptly to gaze at their escort. She beamed at him and breathed a soft 'Hej!'

They stood there, looking at each other for a long moment, until an amused smirk slowly crept over Reg's features. 'May I come in?' he asked, motioning forward.

Her face fell. 'Oh yes, of course,' she hurried to answer while stepping even further back, 'Undskyld, I'm just so excited! Mor's in the kitchen. I'm sure she'll come any moment.' Just when Viola had said that and Reg had stepped over the threshold, her mother indeed entered the small entrance hall and greeted their guest as well. They exchanged a few polite words.

'Is that your luggage?' Reg asked eventually, pointing at two moderately sized leather bags. Upon the nod of Mrs. Søgaard, he seized them. The ladies quickly grabbed their travelling cloaks, although due to the strong August sun they chose to not wear them. 'If you would each take hold of one of my arms – the portkey around my neck only waits for me to say the right word.' An indefinable feeling in her stomach, Viola took one of Reg's arms. Only reluctantly, or so it seemed to her daughter, Mrs. Søgaard took the other.

They materialised in the middle of a trodden out path. The first that caught Viola's eyes were a number of simple wooden houses. Yet beyond them, a beautiful scenery played out before her: the warm summer sun's golden light swept over the mountainside that rose with mighty, sharp peaks toward the sky. Deeply green woods enveloped the base of the giant formations. As someone who had spent most of her life in a country whose highest elation measured little more than 170 metres, Viola was momentarily stunned by the raw power of nature that overtowered her. Granted, Beauxbatons was located near the _Montagne Moyenne_, but the girl had only ever seen those mountains from afar (a portkey was used to take her and her fellow Danish pupils directly to the school at the beginning of the school year, so that she had never gone farther than Mytèrle). Now, she was surrounded by even higher peaks. Where those tiny moving creatures that she could barely make out in the distance but seemed to be climbing the rocks chamois?

Her mother's call wrenched her away from her amazed observations. She turned her attention away from the mountains to notice that she was still clinging to Reg's arm, whereas her mother had already stepped away from him and regained possession of her bag. With a slight blush, Viola let go of their host as well and looked up at him expectantly.

He smiled at her warmly and motioned for them to follow him as he started to walk. 'At the moment, I fear, our accommodations are very simple, but I hope you find them acceptable for the short duration of your stay.' Reg opened the door to one of the huts. It seemed slightly magically enlarged inside, and nothing told of its wooden walls. In fact, it was a lovely little house comprising everything one needed for living. In the entrance area, they put their street shoes in the shoe rack and hung their travelling cloaks on the hallstand. Through a door, they reached a large room that was painted white and contained both a small hearth and a kitchen cupboard as well as a sitting area. Several pot plants, a painting of a porlock looking distrustfully up from its early lunch of grass, and forest green curtains framing the windows gave the place a rather lived-in feeling. Viola wondered how it was kept in this state without regular occupants, but the answer appeared immediately.

A house-elf popped into the room bearing a tray of tea and biscuits that it put down on the table of the sitting area before turning around and noticing that it was not alone. 'Oh,' it said startled, 'forgive me, Master, I did not-'

Reg shook his head minutely, and the elf fell silent. 'You have prepared the ladies' bedrooms?' he enquired.

The elf nodded. In contrast to the old elf that had served Viola's family and had disappeared with her father, this one did not seem to fear its master's wrath for not having fulfilled its duties properly. It merely listened to Reg attentively, eager for further orders.

Reg turned to Mrs. Søgaard and her daughter. 'This is Zig. She is one of three house elves that maintain the settlement. Should you need anything, call upon her. Unfortunately, I have to leave you now, because my shift is not over yet. Zig will show you the rest of the house. Make yourselves comfortable and take a walk, if you like. I plan to have lunch at about one o'clock, and I would love to welcome you at my table.'

Viola's mother inclined her head in acceptance of the invitation. The girl itself could not help but wonder. No one in her family spoke like that – 'I would love to have you at my table'… It sounded so artificial, so stiff, like something Agnetha's parents in law would say when inviting another highly ranked pureblood family. She really wondered where he had these refined manners from. Åge, his father, as Viola now knew, had seemed polite, but not in such a fashion. Now that she thought about it, Viola's face was drawn into a frown. Had Reg not told her that he had met someone who had _introduced_ him to Åge? Somehow, that piece of information had slipped her notice in the past weeks. How could he be he son of a man who he claimed to have gotten to know only in adulthood? She mentally wrote that question down for later as she saw Reg leave them.

Zig showed them the bathroom on the ground floor (when her mother enquired about the source of water in the face of a complete lack of taps, the elf asked perturbed if their wands did not spit water) and directed the two visitors each to one of the three bedrooms on the upper floor. Mrs. Søgaard announced that she was going to remain in her room until lunch.

The room that was Viola's for the next two days (she already wished she could stay for at least two weeks) was more spacious than the one she had at home. Its furnishing was simple (nothing in comparison to the moated castle), but the big window gave her an overwhelming view of the mountainside behind the hut. Almost magically drawn to taking a stroll in this countryside, Viola did not waste any time with unpacking.

After half an hour's walk in the mild mountain air, Viola had surrounded the few houses and spotted a wooden hut that bore the sign 'nursery'. Attracted by curiosity, she walked around it and peered through one of the windows. Inside, a man stood with his back to her in front of a large workbench on which a row of nests harboured huge eggs. After a few minutes, a second figure came into view and looked up at her. A quill in his hand, Reg motioned for her to come in. Viola smiled and hurried back to the door.

Reigning in her enthusiasm, she opened the door silently, so as to not disturb the men at their work. 'Come in,' the invitation was repeated verbally. The second man turned to the door and smiled at her in apparent surprise. He seemed a bit younger than Reg. Hardly glancing up from the parchment on which he took notes, Reg introduced him as 'Charlie'.

Viola's eyes explored the hut before settling on the hand that was held out to her. She shook it with a smile, surprised at the firmness of the grasp, and resumed her inspection of her surroundings.

'This is where we take care of the eggs that are abandoned by their "mothers". Unfortunately, that happens very frequently. Despite our efforts to provide them with a natural habitat and not disturb them, they _sense_ that they're caged, that their freedom has boundaries. The Norwegian Ridgebacks are especially sensitive,' Reg explained in the face of her curiosity.

'And what are you doing there?' the girl asked when she stepped up to him and looked over his shoulder (well, past it) at the parchment.

'We observe the eggs' development carefully, writing down hourly what temperature they have – due to the thick magical shell, not every egg properly absorbs the warmth provided by our warming charms – and controlling daily their weight and the state of their shell.' He waved his wand over an egg with violet sprinkles, and a red number floated through the air above it, apparently indicating the temperature inside it. Looked like a burning fever to Viola, but then again – these were dragon eggs.

She spent the remaining hour of Reg's shift in the nursery. After he had explained the basics of his occupation to her, the older man fell silent, emerged in his task. His co-worker, however, gladly told her about each egg – its race, its parents, the adventurous way in which they had removed it from the deserted nest of its very territorial mother. The stories were exciting and Charlie had a very humorous way of telling them, so that the time flew by.

About noon, two other dragon keepers took over from them, and Viola accompanied Reg to his office.

Seated in a comfortable armchair, she watched Reg leisurely preparing tea, cutting up bread, slicing fruits and vegetables, making butter and cheese float over to the table, and directing everything to assemble to tasty sandwiches with a few flourishes of his wand.

'You _do_ know your household spells,' she commented with a grin and blew over the steaming cup of coffee that had drifted over to her.

'Being a single wizard has its challenges,' admitted her host.

'And why are you…' Viola halted mid-sentence, not sure if her question was not too nosy.

Reg gave her one of his characteristic amused knowing smiles. He leaned back and sighed quietly. 'There are many reasons. My life has not been the orderly type for a long time. Even my present lifestyle – working in shifts, living far away from any larger wizard dwellings – is something few witches find appealing. Additionally, I have to admit that I… have not met many women that I could picture spending a lifetime with.' He shrugged and sipped his coffee.

Hesitating for a moment, but taking heart at the thought that he had never rebuked her so far, Viola dug deeper. 'What kind of woman are you looking for?'

Reg chuckled in a dark, warm tone, his eyes capturing hers. Placing an arm leisurely on the backrest of his armchair, he goaded her. 'Take a guess. I think you should know me a little by now.'

Viola ogled at him, totally caught off guard. That man had a talent for saying things she did not expect.

'F-fine,' Viola stammered eventually and took a deep breath to collect her thoughts. 'Well… You seem the unconventional type to me. Even though you know much about society, you rarely move in it, from what I've been able to gather. During the ball last week, people were either expressing their surprise of having seen me with you in the concert or even asked who you were because they'd never seen you before, despite your parentage. You like the fine arts, music that is, but you work in a rather rough business.' She frowned, realisation tugging at her mind. 'You combine seemingly contradictory traits in you, as if you didn't want to tie yourself down to one thing. I guess you want a woman that can handle that; someone who doesn't cling to you and also doesn't demand of you to choose a specific lifestyle and stick to it for the rest of your life. Since most women like security and predictability – most of all those born into pureblood society – someone like that would be hard to find.'

Reg swayed his head appreciatively. 'Perhaps there is some truth in that.'

When after a few moments Viola realised that he was not going to comment further, she asked another question, the one she had reserved for such an occasion. 'Speaking of your parentage,' she started, 'there is something I was wondering about. In December, you said that you'd been approached by someone who suggested working for Åge and that's how the two of you met.' Reg nodded. 'But the other day it sounded as if Åge were your father…?'

Reg nodded again, but with a smile on his lips. 'He has adopted me.'

'Oh,' Viola exclaimed in understanding. 'Did he apprentice you?' The apprenticeship, less common amongst wizards than it was in some muggle countries, was a special bond between an older and a younger wizard. Such a relationship sometimes grew so close that a honorary adoption was performed that was both an outer sign for the tightness of the bond as well as a means to ensure that the apprentice would follow in his master's footsteps. It was a form of securing a successor often chosen by childless wizards. In contrast to child adoption, the adoption of an apprentice did not 'uproot' him. He remained the child and heir of his natural parents and gained a third 'parent'.

'Yes, in a manner of speaking,' Reg answered. 'Not immediately, but we came to realise we had a mutual interest for certain challenging aspects of magic that we started exploring together. He has taught me much, and we have become close friends – and business partners,' explained her host. He pulled out his pocket watch, something Viola fondly started to associate with him. 'I think we should take this to your house. We have a lunch engagement with your mother, after all.'

* * *

><p>.~*~.<p>

* * *

><p>Lunch was another affair of polite chatting. Somehow, in the presence of her mother, Viola felt unable to come up with a decent topic to discuss with Reg. When they were alone, the man was almost like a friend, a confidant to her, but in the company her mother, she was drawn between this feeling of confidentiality and the feeling of being the child in the presence of two adults.<p>

The afternoon was the highlight of their visit. Reg offered to take Viola with him on a broom ride into the dragon area. Naturally, her mother was appalled. It took about a quarter of an hour of combined pleading and even a little whining (from Viola) and reassurances that nothing could happen because the brooms used by the dragon keepers were faster and nimbler than dragons (from Reg) to change her attitude from a strict 'Nej!' to a _very_ grudging 'I'll hold you responsible if anything happens to my daughter!'

It had been worth it. Not only because of the breathtaking view of the countryside that passed beneath them, not only because of the cool breeze that flowed through Viola's hair and garments and brushed against her skin, and not only because of the occasional sight of a dragon in the distance. No, because of the warm, strong, lean body against which she rested. If the fluttering streaks of her hair that were pulled free by the wind annoyed him, Reg did not mention it. He generally did not say very much, only drew her attention to something with a point of his hand every once in a while (he was a superb flyer, even single-handed), but the girl did not mind. Snuggling up to him (purely for safety, of course!), and feeling the soft pressure of that hand on her belly holding her tight when it was not pointing anything out sufficed. Viola could not remember ever being so close to a man before. She was glad to be sitting with her face turned away from him, so that he did not see her initial blush at his proximity and the intimacy of his touch. Even so, she was not sure that he did not draw his own conclusions out of the tenseness in her body that only slowly melted away to the comfort with which the female in his arms would always associate that afternoon when she thought back to it.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 9:<strong>

Undskyld = (I'm) sorry, pardon (me)

My personal rolemodels for Viola: Anna Popplewell and Jana Pallaske.

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><p><strong>Any comment is worth ten points.<strong>


	10. Barefooted in the snow

Thank you to Kitty Qin for your review. Here's the next chapter for you.

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><p><strong>10: Barefooted in the snow<strong>

Comfort, yes, that was what she needed. Comfort, and an open, understanding friend. Someone to rely on, someone who would not try to force her onto a path in life that she had already decided against. There was only one person she could think of that _might_ listen to her without a preconceived opinion, without fixed expectations, without 'only wanting the best for her'. How could what was best for her hurt her so much? Merlin, she hoped he would not turn her away! She ran and ran through the halls, her long, fern green dress billowing out behind her, the heels of her shoes clicking loudly on the marble, tears running freely over her face. Getting away from all of this was all that she could think of. He was her only link to the world outside of her narrow confinement. He represented everything she felt drawn to. She barely knew him, but she needed him now.

_Please don't turn me away!_

* * *

><p>In the usual formation of six, they flew through the thick snowflakes. In the valley below them, a lonely lantern guided them. It was held by one of the two women who lived with them. In her other hand, she had a tray of steaming mugs. These were the last minutes of the last day in December after all. They had chosen mulled wine instead of champagne to clink 'glasses' due to the coldness.<p>

Reg and the others got off their brooms and eagerly seized a mug each, glad of the warm liquid running down their throats after six hours out in the cold. Warming charms only helped so much against the icy wind. Roughened voices thanked their benefactor, and slowly they made their way toward Reg's office, their breaths coming out in big, white clouds that were illuminated by the lantern.

Suddenly, a dump sound made them turn around. About a dozen feet from them, someone crouched in the snow. Reg frowned. It was a lady – with bare arms in what seemed to be an expensive dress. He stepped forward and helped her up, her delicate frame shivering in his hands. Her face turned up to him. The first thing that caught his eyes were full lips painted in a bright red. The second were her bright grey eyes, brimming with tears, and the tracks of dark make up that had wound their way past her freckles down her round cheeks. Despite them, she broke out into a smile at his sight. 'Reg,' she whispered. 'Miss Søgaard?' he wanted to reply bemusedly, but the young lady (that she definitely was tonight) had already flung her arms around him, clinging to him tightly.

Catcalls resounded behind Reg. He ignored them. Seeing so much naked skin in the middle of a snow shower (and way too close to five slightly drunken men who rarely saw a young woman with such enticements), Reg unclasped his outer cloak, re-enforced the warming charm, and wrapped her tightly in it (as far as he could with her clinging to him as if she were clinging to dear life). He swept her up into his arms and turned back toward his colleagues. He wished them a Happy New Year and a good time celebrating it and popped off.

The girl would not let go of him when they entered his new house. With the help of his wand, he managed to get rid of his boots and carried her into the library, where he sunk into an armchair, the girl in his lap. Some swishes and flicks, followed by an 'Incendio!' later, the fireplace started spreading warmth in the room. The white snowflakes in the coffee-coloured hair of the distressed damsel in his arms slowly melted away.

'Now,' he sad softly while brushing damp tendrils out of her face that once had been part of an elaborate hair dress, 'tell me what brings you to me.'

Reluctantly, the girl stirred, and slowly extracted a hand from under his warming cloak, presenting the button-shaped portkey he had given her and her mother to return home in August. 'I know I should have sent it back to you, but I…,' her voice broke off and she buried her face against his neck.

He smiled. He had never asked for it to be returned, nor had he chosen to give her the common one-use-only-portkey. 'I doesn't matter. Tell me what's happened. Why are you so distraught?'

She wound an arm around him and pressed herself tightly against his chest. Whatever it was that had shaken her, it had temporarily deprived her of any shyness. The cloak slipped and unveiled the great expanse of skin that was left uncovered by her dress. Her shoulders, adorned by tiny freckles, the upper part of her back, the long curve of her neck, her arms, her collar bones, the swells of her breasts that pressed against him – he had gotten to know her as a nice, young, talented girl, but this was a highly desirable, sensuous woman. Her state of dress was almost obscene for a girl her age. He could not help but gently brush over the soft skin of her back, feeling her move beneath his hand as if she drew comfort out of his touch. This was a dangerous game. He had not expected finding himself in such a situation with her this soon. Too soon.

'Calm yourself,' he said in a firmer tone, deliberately trying to wrench her out of the stupor she seemed to be in. He lifted her up as he rose once more and set her down on the armchair by herself, slipping out of her embrace. She looked forlorn, but the smallest trace of recognition on her face also told him that she started realising the awkwardness of the situation she was in. 'I'll go and prepare some tea, and then you'll tell me what is going on,' Reg told her in a soothing voice.

* * *

><p>Viola sniffed and gazed bleary eyed into the flames to her left. A strange numbness engulfed her. She felt stranded in the world, strangely indifferent to her surroundings. Slowly, the last shivers left her body, and the warmth of the fire crept into her limbs. It was a while that she sat alone like that, only distantly being aware of tiny noises coming from an adjoining room. The heavy coat that had already half dropped from her shoulders grew too warm, and she folded it and draped it over the backrest. Minute by minute diving a little further out of her stupor, Viola started to take notice of her surroundings. Most of the room was dominated by a huge book shelf that formed a semi circle and even surrounded the windows. Some books had already been sorted to their proper places, but most of them still rested in enormous stacks on the floor. Everything in the room (except for some of the tomes) looked new.<p>

On shaky legs, she rose and went over to one of the windows to peer out into the winter night that was still veiled by masses of white that tumbled down from above. She sniffed once more and wiped the tears from her face. When she looked down on her hands, she noticed that they were smeared with black. Numbly noticing that she probably looked like a mess, she shuffled to the door to look where Reg had disappeared to. On the opposite side of the hall, a door stood ajar and light fell through the crack. She pushed it further open to find herself in a big kitchen, with Reg sitting on a stool right in front of her, waiting for the water to boil. 'Could I use your bathroom?' she asked meekly.

'It's upstairs,' he calmly replied. 'Opposite the windows, there are two doors. Take the left. You'll have to use your wand to fill the basin with water. The water supply's not installed yet. But you find towels on the shelf.' He smiled benignly and stood up to take the whistling kettle from the hearth.

Since it was hard to tell under age magic from mature magic in a magical household, many European countries were less strict with their regulations and put the responsibility of ascertaining that their children neither performed magic in front of muggles nor used illegal curses in the hands of the parents instead of prohibiting under age magic in general, as the Brits and the Germans did. Thus, Viola muttered a 'Lumos' to find her way without accident up the winding staircase and into the bathroom. Looking into the mirror after lighting some candles in the room, she had to concede that she really _did_ look bad. Her hair was tousled, her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed, and blackish, smeared tear tracks ran down her cheeks.

At the bottom of the stack, beneath several brand new towels, she found an old one that she felt she could use without feeling bad for ruining Reg's belongings. She filled the wash basin with foamy water and wetted the tip of the towel, carefully rubbing her skin with it, until most of the smears had come off. Her face felt raw, now, but somehow she felt better, sobered.

Viola looked indecisively into the mirror, not sure what to do with her hair. Could she just use Reg's comb? She suddenly felt like an intruder. He surely had had other plans for New Year's Eve, and here she was, forcing herself onto him, invading his private space. Before that feeling could intensify, a soft knock wrenched her out of her thoughts. Reg stood in the door. Apparently she had been up here too long. 'I'm sorry; I did not mean to let you wait. I mean, I'm sorry I'm taking up your time at all, I…'

The warm smile and soft shake of the head with which Reg replied let Viola stop mid sentence. He stepped into the room and retrieved a comb. 'May I?' he pointed to her hair and looked her in the eyes in the mirror.

She nodded mutely.

Slowly, one after the other, Reg carefully pulled the pins out of her hair. Each time, his hands would brush against her neck. 'So, what has happened tonight?' his smooth voice asked.

Viola did not really want to think about it just then. She had successfully banned it from her mind. Yet, she guessed, Reg had the right to an explanation for her sudden appearance. 'I was invited to the New Year's Ball of my sister and her husband,' she started to explain with a sigh. 'Everything was fine. We clinked glasses at midnight, and I danced a few times. Well, some of my dance partners were… -I'm not sure. I felt a little uncomfortable, but perhaps that was just me being silly.' Reg carefully moved the tips of his fingers through her hair to seek any lingering pins. The girl revelled in the sensation. 'Then,' she continued, 'at half past midnight, an older man asked me to dance. Well, he wasn't _that_ old, but at least in the middle pf his forties. There was something unsettling about the way he eyed me, the way he…' She shuddered. 'The way he grabbed my hips and pulled me close while we danced. I wanted to stop, but he would not let go, and I did not want to make a scene.' Reg's hands, that had started combing Viola's hair, stilled. The warm hand that was placed consolingly on her shoulder, now, did _not_ cause any uncomfortable shivers in her body, and the stern attention with which Reg looked at her through the mirror steadied Viola. She nibbled on her lower lip and resumed her tale. 'He asked me many questions, then. Questions of a personal nature. About my family, about my interests. He seemed very well informed. Alarmingly well. As if he'd observed me for a long time.

'Eventually, he asked me how I'd liked his gift. The golden hair comb, you remember?'

'The one neither of us liked,' he commented.

Viola smiled. 'Yes, that one. It was _his_ present. I don't know. From there it all went awry. I felt so hemmed in by his presence, so… repelled by his bearing, and he suddenly started talking of a mutual future, that he had discussed it all with my mother and Agnetha's parents in law already, who apparently are old friends of his and then I saw Agnetha how she smiled encouragingly at me as if I'd made the grand catch, and I just…'

Reg held her tighter, his free hand brushing a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear affectionately. 'You just wanted to get away,' he finished her sentence.

'Yes.'

He nodded. His reflection in the mirror looked severe, thoughtful.

'Do you think I've acted rashly, immature?' she asked him, made unsure by his reaction.

'Well, it certainly would have been better to keep a cool mind, but it is understandable that under these circumstances, and confronted with another person's physical desires for the first time, you were overwhelmed and needed neutral ground to sort out your thoughts.'

'Yes,' Viola agreed, eased by his understanding.

'Who gave you this dress?' Reg enquired unexpectedly.

The girl frowned. 'My sister dressed me up tonight. Why?'

Reg seized her gently by the upper arms and pulled her farther away from the mirror so that she had a better view of herself. 'Look at yourself,' he prompted her, twisting her hair up into a bum to imitate her previous hair dress and holding it in place. 'Try not to see yourself, try to find an objective perspective, as if you were looking at another girl. See your dark, thick eyelashes framing your light, wide eyes. See the healthy, round face with those rosy cheeks. See the freckles on your nose that give you such a touch of youthful innocence. Notice your full lips, painted in signal red so no one can overlook them. Then there's your exposed neck, always a sign of fragility, speaking to the sense of protectiveness in a man. Your uncovered shoulders and arms, rarely seen amongst wizards and a sign that you're "open", readily "available", easy prey. And do I indeed have to tell you about the effect of half-exposed breasts on a male? Especially when they're as… -pardon my frankness, as full and beautiful as yours?'

Viola blushed under his heavy scrutiny, feeling the impulse to step away from him. They suddenly seemed too close.

'Young lady, be assured,' Reg rounded off his argumentation, feigning ignorance to the undercurrents in the room, 'whoever dressed you up like this wanted the evening to proceed as it did. As enticing as you are tonight, it was inevitable.' He put the comb down and stepped a few paces away from her to give her space to think.

Many thoughts invaded Viola's mind. Primarily indignation that people wanted to decide about the course of her life over her head, that they paraded her like an object. 'How do you think I should have reacted?' she asked Reg, turning around to face him.

He sighed and crossed his arms while he moved to sit on the rim of the bathtub. 'Since your family's ideas of your future seem to clash fundamentally with your own, it seems only the logical next step to address the matter openly with them. It could well be that they're unaware of your distress, and a rational discussion is better suited to wipe out misunderstandings than simply running away from them.'

Viola breathed in heavily. 'Does it have to be tonight?'

Reg smiled benignly, partly in amusement of her pleading tone, or so she felt. 'You would be well advised to wait until you're rested and have figured out very clearly what you want to say. Rushing into it won't help, no. However, you should write a note to your mother, stating that you're well, that you would like to speak with her, and when you will return. Otherwise you will needlessly worry her and subsequently seem selfish and immature because you were safe when everyone feared the worst.'

Viola nodded ruefully.

Reg rose and went past her towards the bathroom door. 'Come down, drink some tea, and then I'll have a house elf deliver your message. If you wish, you can stay here tonight.'

As he led her back down the winding staircase and into the library, a different thought distracted Viola from the previous events of the evening: she had come closer to Reg than ever before. For a moment, she was once more embarrassed by intruding upon him with the way she had clung to him for dear life. Yet he had let it happen. He had touched her, comforted her… No, he had not just let it happen. He had broken his usually so strict distance and actively sought her closeness, hadn't he? His strong hands so tenderly brushing her hair and then tightly holding her shoulder… Her heart beat faster while she poured them tea with shaky hands and watched him look for quill and parchment.

Absent-mindedly, she wrote the message he had suggested, wondering what intention had truly prompted his invitation to stay over night… Was her imagination, her secret attraction to him, playing tricks on her perception? Was she reading too much into his behaviour? She blew over the parchment and folded it.

'Zig!' Reg called, and immediately the tiny elf popped into being between them. 'Could you please deliver this to Miss Søgaard's mother?'

The elf bowed.

Before it could disapparate, Reg added, 'Only give it to her when she has been informed of her daughter's disappearance. There's no need to worry her needlessly.'

The elf bowed once more. 'Very well, Master.' With that, it disappeared.

Reg took the second armchair and sipped some of his tea.

Suddenly, Viola felt the silence hang heavily between them. She looked uncomfortably about, once more spotting the piles of books. 'This is a new house, isn't it?' she tried to start a new strand of conversation.

'Yes. We're founding a new wizard settlement to improve the dragon keeper's living standards.'

'Oh,' Viola indicated interest, 'I see. Where are we, then?'

'Still in Romania, in a wetland area. For muggles, this is a nature reserve. I can show you around tomorrow, before you go back to your family, if you wish.'

The girl nodded.

Reg nipped at his tea once more; then he put the cup down and rose from his seat again. 'I'll go upstairs and prepare a guest room for you. I'll leave some shirts for you to transfigure into more appropriate attire.'

'Uhm,' she held him back. With an apologetic facial expression, the girl admitted, 'I fear Transfiguration is not exactly my forte…'

Reg smirked. 'Fine, I'll transfigure something. But no complaints afterwards,' he warned jestingly.

Viola smiled. 'Not a word.'

.~*~.

She awoke the next morning to the sight of a white, empty, and pretty large room. When Viola extracted her arm from under the comfy eiderdown, cold air hit her warm skin. Shivering, she retracted it immediately and glared at the empty fireplace. Unfortunately, there was no wood anywhere in sight. Instead, Viola glanced at the stool next to her bed (the two were the only pieces of furniture in the room). There lay the robe that Reg had transfigured for her (along with the pale green nightgown she wore). It was made of ruby-coloured, woollen material that was soft and warm to her skin.

Viola changed her garments under the bedcover (laughing about the pair of thick woollen socks that Reg had also provided), made the bed, and tiptoed out of the room. The faint scent of coffee hitting her nose answered her question if Reg was up already. After quickly checking her reflection in the bathroom mirror, she descended the stairs and turned left to the kitchen. Before she pushed the door open, she already smelled that there were other scents beneath the coffee in the air. When she entered, she saw Reg standing with his back to her at a long workbench, mirroring the bookshelves in the library in its half-circle shape, and preparing potion ingredients. On a stool next to the door sat a second man that she soon recognised to be Åge.

'God morgen,' her host greeted Viola without turning to look at her.

Åge turned around to look who his son was talking to, having apparently not heard her, and looked at the girl to his right somewhat perplexedly. Had he been open and friendly at their last encounter, he seemed absent-minded and grumpy this morning. No greeting came over his lips; instead, he just continued staring at her as if he was not sure if she was real or merely a hallucination.

Reg turned around with a big chopping board full of ingredients and spared the strange scene that unwound between his two guests a fleeting glance. 'Ignore him,' he advised Viola, 'when a Potions Master asks someone else to prepare him a hangover potion, his tømmermænd are _very_ busy.

Oh. New Year's Eve. Viola smiled.

'There's coffee in the pot. Cups are down there,' Reg motioned to one of the kitchen cupboards below the long workspace on which he had prepared the ingredients before sprinkling a few carefully measured drops of the slime of an Hawaiian volcano snail (Viola recognised it because of its tell-tale lava colour) into the bubbling cauldron.

Since Reg seemed occupied by his task, Viola browsed through some of the other cupboards as well after retrieving a cup and finally found the one that contained the food and thus wore a constant stasis spell. There was half a loaf of bread, some eggs, a bit of butter, and some ham. That was not very much, but she reminded herself that Reg probably had had other plans for last night that – presumably – included feeling just as miserable this morning as his father did and being pampered by the house elves at the castle.

Viola prepared a passable breakfast for the three of them during which – due to the by then finished potion – Åge slowly came back to his senses.

Afterwards, Reg gave her the promised tour of the new settlement. Not that there was much to see. There was a lot of marshland and a few half finished houses. Reg's seemed about the only one that was more or less finished.

Eventually, the inevitable came: she had to return home.

Her mother first gave her a stern lecture about running off to some random wizard. It took Viola quite a while to convince her that Reg had behaved very gentlemanly and had in fact been the one to tell her that she had to openly discuss her discomfort instead of fleeing her problems.

'What problems are you talking about?' asked her mother then. 'Has something happened?'

Viola told her. About the greasy men, about how Agnetha had dressed her up and how Reg had disclosed to her that her appearance was quite inappropriate. She described in detail the encounter with her suitor, how he had ogled at her and said that she was as good as his bride already due to an agreement with her mother and Søren's parents.

'I have not agreed to anything!' her mother exclaimed immediately. 'I received an official proposal for you a week before Christmas, that is true, but I replied that it was too soon, that you were too young yet, that you should at least finish school before getting married.'

Viola shook his head in misery and disbelief. 'I felt betrayed, sold…'

Her mother frowned.

'Mor, I don't want such a life,' Viola said earnestly. 'I…,' she looked down on her hands, trying to find words that would not hurt her mother, since after all she _had_ led exactly that life, 'I hope I don't seem presumptuous to you, but I would like to make my own way in life. Please don't ask me to marry a man of your choosing.'

Mrs. Søgaard's frown deepened. 'What other path do you see for yourself, then? You must have an idea if you are so decidedly against marriage.'

Viola shook his head. 'Not against marriage, only against arranged marriage.' She took a deep breath, bracing herself for expressing an opinion that she had not fully formed yet. 'I guess I would like to pursue a career. I _do_ want a family one day, but I would like to see what life holds for me beyond that beforehand.'

'You don't want to become a dragon keeper, do you?' enquired her mother wearily.

Her daughter laughed uneasily. 'No. I don't think I'd be qualified for that, nor have I seen a single woman amongst Reg's people. But his father is a potions master, perhaps he would take me on as an apprentice…'

'His father has also a very doubtful reputation,' her mother reminded her.

Viola had nothing to counter that. 'All I'm saying is that I would like to learn more about magic; that I would like to be productive and gain experience.'

Eventually, her mother acquiesced. She was willing to give her youngest daughter some free reign, in certain boundaries of social acceptance, of course. In the aftermath, she had a severe dispute with the parents-in-law of her older daughter. It turned out they had indeed fuelled the hope of Viola's suitor, hinting that the girl would be glad of a proposal. To the girl's delight, her mother fiercely refused to tolerate such interference and backed up her daughter's decision.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 10:<strong>

Pictures of Reg's house (odd format, because this site erases urls): www . photobucket[dot com slash]theblackdragon

On the matter of robes: I've been wondering for a while how 'robe' is defined. Today, they are commonly known as rather widely cut garments (worn e.g. by judges), but if wizards and witches solely wore robes, how could the women ever display their female charms? Rowling's description of Hermione's attire at the Yule Ball was very vague. All she wrote was 'She was wearing robes made of a floaty, periwinkle-blue material', and all other descriptions of girls' robes amount to nothing more than a naming of their colour as well. Is the wizarding society so prude that they don't wear clothes that reveal their physical shape? I doubt so. That would have been commented on by the Muggleborns and Muggleraised, so we'd have heard about it from Harry. Since the International Statue of Secrecy was established in the late seventeenth century, and thus wizarding world withdrew from Muggle influence at that time, it seems only logical to me to use that century's fashion as reference. Ladies _did_ wear very wide, long skirts, but the dresses were much tighter around their upper bodies (especially accenting their waists) and sometimes also showed décolleté. Viola's dress, leaving her shoulders and arms uncovered would certainly have been deemed too revealing, but perhaps her suitor specifically asked her sister to arrange for her to be dressed so enticingly so he could show off with her and delight his eye on her?

A link to some contemporary paintings: www. marquise. de/ en/ 1600/ pics/ index. shtml

Tømmermænd: Danish expression for hangover; tømmer = wood; mænd = men. I like to immagine them like woodcutters using their axes on people's heads.


	11. Growing up

**11: Growing up**

Back at school, Viola immediately employed a school owl to deliver a letter to Reg, detailing how the conversation with her mother had proceeded and what results it had entailed. She hesitated for a moment before sending the owl off. Would Reg even be interested in her petty problems? He had been so understanding… -and still, Viola felt slightly embarrassed for her immature flight from her problems. What did he see in her? In those moments in the bathroom they had seemed so close, intimate… But after that, he had been… -well, a perfect gentleman.

.~*~.

In the following half of a year, owl missives sent forth and back between Viola and Reg became a monthly affair. As it was unusual for Viola to receive any mail at all, some of the girls in her class started whispering behind her back about a secret lover. Her shunning of a very good marriage proposal had attracted attention already.

Viola did not care. She treasured the exchange. They wrote mostly about trivial matters: Reg's workdays, Viola's thoughts about her future career. Viola drank in his well reasoned worldview, basked in his short descriptions of trips to places all over Europe to sell the dragon products and of the remarkable characters he met on the way. It was her window to the world.

And that she needed. What she did not tell Reg about were the repercussions the events on New Year's Eve had for her. Unversed as she was in proper behaviour amongst the higher society, Viola had blindly followed her sister's lead, and now she found herself in a very inconvenient situation. Due to her pureblood status, she had mostly kept to that clique at school. There were major differences between countries' dispositions concerning the acceptance of muggleborns in the wizarding society, and since Beauxbatons welcomed students from all of Central and Western Europe (the British Isles excluded), there was a great drift between those students that set great store by the traditions and thus shunned muggle influence and those that readily welcomed change and hailed the modern lifestyle. They wore strange garments beneath their school robes (some muggleborn girls even wore trousers that showed every curve of their bodies!), had different interests and were generally much more outspoken, even to the point of disrespect from a pureblood's point of view. Viola had never felt very comfortable around them.

However, now, she felt just as uncomfortable in the company of the people she had belonged to before. It had started immediately after her return to school in January. The whispering, the stares, and the giggling. The snorting. The remarks. People spoke about the nutty, muggle-like dress she had worn, and they spoke about her arrogance. How could she, considering her family's precarious social and financial standing, refuse such a completely respectable proposal? It was regarded as an outrage, and she in turn as a misfit.

Viola spent most of her time alone those days, playing her violin.

* * *

><p>Reg had the first night shift together with Charlie and four others out in the field. In contrast to that before, during which the six patrollers had to call for aid from the eight that tended the handicapped dragons because of a fight over a female fire-breather between two males, their shift was uneventful.<p>

They landed safely on the muddy path that wound between the wooden huts. 'I could use some practice to finish off the day. What about you?' one of the men proposed to Reg.

'Sounds good. What about you, Charlie. Care for a tri-ell?'

The redhead declined. 'I'll go and hit the pillows.' In fact, he had found someone to share his pillows with.

A bird settled suddenly on Reg's shoulder. 'Oh, by the way,' the man said offhandedly while he untied a letter from its leg and skimmed it. 'Have you had any news from home lately?'

One of the other men looked over Reg's shoulders to catch a glimpse of the parchment. It was a well known secret that their boss had gotten himself a little female pen friend, and it was a joking matter amongst the dragon keepers.

'Just yesterday, actually,' Charlie replied to Reg's question. They walked toward the shelter in front of Reg's office where they kept the brooms. 'It seems as if my siblings magically attract trouble. And it's always connected to You-Know-Who. Last year's events sent my brother to the hospital wing; this time, my sister barely escaped death,' he uttered softly.

Reg lifted his eyes from the letter. 'Oh? What's happened?'

'Well, it's not really a story to tell in between…'

'Then join us for a nightcap,' Reg insisted and put the parchment into an inner pocket of his robe.

Charlie issued a weary sigh and capitulated. 'Fine.'

Five minutes later, the three of them were all seated in Reg's rather comfortable armchairs and nuzzling a drop of good old Ogden's in big round glasses, and Charlie told them about the cursed diary that had hoodwinked his sister and Harry Potter and had apparently somehow held a piece of a memory or… -he did not know what. 'Sounds all very bizarre, I know,' he said in answer to the third man's sceptical look, 'but that's how my mother described it, and she had it from Dumbledore, after all.'

Reg sat with his arms crossed and peered darkly into the blackness outside.

'Actually,' Charlie spoke after some moments of silence, 'there is something I wanted to discuss with you anyway. My mother also wrote that dad has won money in a prize drawing and they want me to come along on a trip to Egypt to visit Bill.' Over the course of their working together, Charlie had, of course, told his colleagues about his older brother who worked as a curse-breaker for Gringotts. 'Please don't give me any shifts in the last week of July and the first three weeks in August.'

* * *

><p>Viola's mind brimmed with her thoughts. What would she need for her summer at the moated castle? Light robes, underwear, toothbrush, hairbrush… would she need her own cauldron, stirring rods and ingredients? <em>Mince<em> , she had not thought to ask! After all, she was not going on holidays but having a potions placement. She had come home from school only yesterday, and in two hours, Reg would fetch her. A month-long placement with Reg's father! Despite her mother's misgivings concerning the man's personal reputation, even she had eventually conceded that he was renowned to be a superb master of his profession whose name would certainly look good on her daughter's Curriculum Vitae.

A dressrobe. She should pack one. After all, tomorrow was midsummer's night, and according to Reg, that event was an important date on the Broderskab's calendar. She hoped she would be allowed to attend. Last time, Reg had seemed intent to keep her away from the other dragon keepers. Yet she had only been fifteen then. Now she was almost seventeen. Admittedly, to Reg and the other men she must still seem half a child. Sometimes she caught glimpses of that in his letters. Merlin, she wished she knew better how to read between his lines!

At noon, her suitcase stood in the hall, next to Reg. He smiled benignly at her enquiry. 'I don't think that will be necessary. Åge has enough cauldrons.' He winked.

The encounter with Reg was quick. He Apparated her to the entrance of the castle, where he called a house elf to give her further guidance. 'I need to head off. My shift starts this very moment.' Before Viola could say anything, he was gone.

.~*~.

Due to the preparations for the celebration, Viola's first day after sleeping in the castle was free of potions and potions masters. She had seen Åge at dinner the previous evening, together with his wife Babette ('Betty') and their four years old daughter Ella. It had been a very nice, cheerful evening. They were very decent, open-hearted people. The next morning, however, she had to breakfast alone, because everyone else was busy. She spent the day exploring the castle. In the afternoon, she happened upon Betty and joined her for tea.

The two females talked about this and that, about when Betty had married Åge (six years ago) and if they wanted more children (Betty would like a son, but Åge was disinclined). 'He says he's too old, that he's never wanted a big family and now it was too late anyway.'

'Well, he _has_ a son already,' Viola pointed out. 'Reg and Åge seem close.'

Betty screwed up her face.

Viola hesitated. 'Is something wrong?'

The other woman inhaled sharply. Then she seemed to come to her senses. 'No, no. It's just that I don't see how a stranger could take the place of an own son. Of seeing how your own flesh and blood grows up, you see?' she argued sweetly. Something about her struck Viola as off, though. As if she had more against Reg than she was already letting on to.

Deciding to pretend that she had noticed nothing, Viola continued their talk. 'When are the celebrations going to start?'

'At about eight.'

.~*~.

This year, the celebrations did not take place in the inner courtyard but on the west bank between the castle and the ditch. This way, a multitude of fires could be lit and a multitude of joints could be roasted, and the children could take a bath in between. The feast was even merrier than in previous years; a feast that emphasised the Broderskab's self-conception as a big family.

Viola walked through the crowd, watching a group of children playing tag with a smile on her lips. A goblet was pushed into her hand. 'Hello, fair maiden,' one dragon keeper in a group of men called out to her.

She smiled at him shyly and made to go on.

He held her back. 'What are you doing here? I've never seen you before.' His companions followed their exchange attentively.

'I…' A hand settled on her shoulder, and Viola jerked around, only to find herself face to face with Åge.

'There you are,' he said benignly, eyeing her company before his gaze settled on her. 'I was wondering if you cared to play for us. A bit of merry music to dance to?'

Unprepared? Viola did not feel comfortable at the thought. Yet, at the look of Åge's expectant face, she relented. 'I'll fetch my violin,' she replied timidly and hurried back toward the castle.

Close to one of the bigger fires, there soon assembled a group of dancers and swung their limbs to Viola's cheery folk music. The first minutes, she could feel the heat rising to her face. She was not used to being at the centre of attention. All on her own. But soon she eased into the role.

Someone grabbed a wooden bucket and turned it around to use its bottom as drum and played along with her. Every once in a while, one of the bystanders recognised a song and sang along with shaky lyrics and in the lull of a drunken voice. She felt part of the Broderskab.

By the time that Viola's arm was too cramped to continue, she was flushed and in dire need of a refreshing drink and a bit of rest. She carefully wiped the violin and her bow clean with a fine piece of cloth and subsequently ventured to return the instrument to her room in the castle.

As she walked through the empty corridors of the old building, a ray of light falling through the crack of the library door caught her eye. She approached it curiously and peered inside. The source of the light was the fireplace, in front of which sat someone holding a short, wide glass with a thick bottom that contained an amber liquid. The top of the person's head that peeked over the backrest of the armchair was covered in brown, wavy hair that looked very much like Reg's.

Quietly, she pushed the door open and walked far enough into the room to discern the other person's identity. Her guess had been right. Reg slowly turned to her. 'Miss Søgaard,' he acknowledged her presence in a calm tone.

'Why aren't you outside with the others?' Viola asked him.

Reg shrugged listlessly, the light of the flames dancing over his features. 'Just taking a break. From a certain point in time onwards, people get a little too drunk to be suffered in a state of soberness.'

Viola smiled amusedly and pointed to his drink. 'And so you aim for a state of equal drunkenness before you join them again?'

A soundless smirk crossed Reg's face. 'I fear I'm not made for getting drunk. I like alcohol too little and control over my actions too much to enter that state.' His eyes moved over her. 'You look exhausted. Did you play until now?'

She nodded.

He motioned to a second armchair next to his. 'Join me. Juice?'

'Yes, please. I'm thirsty,' Viola replied and dropped gracelessly into the seat. A careless Accio (for the glass) and a more careful hovering charm (letting the juice carafe float into Reg's hand) later, she eagerly took the drink and gulped it down with as much dignity as her dry throat would allow. She held the glass out for a refill, smiling at Reg nonchalantly.

'So,' the man commenced a proper conversation, 'how have you fared this school year? It was your second last, was it not? The one with the first important exams?'

'Yes,' Viola confirmed. 'The exams were quite alright. I think my results will be acceptable.' The girl fell silent.

Reg waited. When she made no move to add anything, he dug deeper. 'And otherwise? Most people your age have more in mind than exam results…,' he insinuated.

Viola shrugged uneasily. 'Why? What did _you_ do when you were sixteen?' she evaded the question.

Reg pursed his lips and cocked his head. 'Things I came to regret not long after.' He drew up a brow and looked at her appraisingly. 'D'you have a confession to make? To divulge any dark secrets?' Of course, his voice held a hint of mockery, yet not enough to make the question completely rhetorical.

'None. You know everything already,' assured Viola therefore.

Yet Reg's perception was sharper than she would have liked and his eyes bore into her inquisitively. 'What dark secrets of yours do I know already?' he asked.

She sighed and wrung her hands. There was no way around it. 'The New Year's Ball and all that.'

Reg's voice dropped. 'And all that?'

Viola had always enjoyed the time spent with him, but tonight Reg was irritating her, making her feel uncomfortable. She did not want to discuss her petty little girl problems with him. It made her painfully aware of her young age in contrast to his. 'You know, my inappropriate attire, all of that. People had quite something to say to that back at school,' she answered quickly, knowing evasion wouldn't be possible.

Reg eyed her with an expression in his eyes that said he knew there was more to the story, but he refrained from prying any further. 'Do you have closer friends at school, a clique you spend your time with?' he asked instead, the question still precariously close, too close to the original topic for Viola, although she was not sure if he was aware of it. Perhaps he thought he was steering their talk into safer waters? Perhaps.

Again, Viola knew no better answer than an indecisive shrug. She did not meet his eyes. 'I've never been really close to anyone, no. Up until January I got along fine with everybody, but I never really fit into a close circle of friends. I guess I was too prude for the muggleborns and not well informed enough about the high society gossip for the purebloods,' she assessed her position, her fingers sliding along the smooth surface of her glass. 'But lately I've befriended a girl that's a year below me,' she added, trying to not seem too pathetic. 'She comes from Hungary and doesn't really fit in, either.' Easy-going Reg must think her stupid not to be able to make friends.

Yet, he sat here, in a semi-lit room, while outside there was a party which he hosted…

The man beside her gazed into the flames while he slowly sipped his drink. 'Don't isolate yourself too much,' he advised her pensively. 'Even if you don't see any similarities between you and the others, it is always better to have a foot in the door, as the saying is. There might come the day when their acquaintance proves useful. It also happens that people you believed to know for years suddenly show a totally different side, that you just weren't aware of your mutual interests or you overrated or misinterpreted their behaviour towards you.'

Viola pushed her shoes off her feet, indignation rearing up in her, and pulled her legs up onto the armchair. 'I'm not isolating myself,' she said defensively.

Reg held his hands up in a placatory gesture. 'I did not mean to insinuate that. All I am saying is that it's often a natural reaction when you're feeling out of place. An unintended mechanism. You feel disrespected. People don't seem to acknowledge your value. That hurts you, and you subconsciously react to it. You may think that you behave normally, but in truth you hold back a bit, are weary of hidden meanings behind what others say, and simply don't act as openly and communicative as your peers are used to. That in turn marks you as strange again, and so they will continue treating you differently… -it can be a vicious circle.'

Viola said nothing in return. Reg's words left her uneasy, and a part of her wished they would circumvent these topics, for she felt… – shoddy – for not being more popular, if that made sense. Yet, another part of her was also grateful for his advice and the hint that he knew her situation (which meant she was not alone in this and there were people getting along just fine without being popular), and that part of her pondered his advice carefully.

They sat in silence for a long while, the crackling of the fire and their thoughts their only entertainment. 'Were you popular at school?' Viola asked eventually into the stillness.

Reg sniffed as outer sign that he had heard her, shifted on his seat, and pushed his bottom lip forward as if he had to consider his answer first. 'I had no major problems with my schoolmates, but there were certainly people more popular than me. I kind of… drifted along. I guess I tried to fit in a little too much. I soaked in the ideas and beliefs of my peers and loved being part of a greater plan, in the end. In some way, I took the other extreme, the opposite way in contrast to the one I just warned you about. My brother always said I was weak for not developing my own opinion, but I guess all young wizards and witches need their time to find their own way and are easily influenced during that period. He was no different there; he just had other friends.'

That was the second time that Reg hinted that he had gotten off the path in his youth in some way. However, Viola seized on the other huge fact he had revealed. 'You have a brother?'

The brown-haired man nodded without looking at her. 'Haven't seen him in decades. We've never really gotten along. I guess our tempers were too different.'

Viola was confused. 'But no matter your differences, he's still your brother! Don't you miss him?' she wanted to know.

Reg put his glass aside. 'Him as a person not particularly. My family and childhood home certainly. But it's futile talking about it. The way back is bared, in multiple manners.' His long, slender hand seized Viola's, and his eyes held hers. 'In fact, I have to ask you not to relate to anyone what I've just told you. No one but Åge knows about my original family, and it needs to remain so.'

The girl looked with confusion and concern at him, because she could not fathom any reason for such secrecy, but she nodded nevertheless. 'Of course. I'm not going to tell.'

Reg smiled in a pleased manner and squeezed her hand softly before he got up.

* * *

><p>Later that night, when Viola was safely in her bed, the evening's conversation replayed in her mind. She felt a spark of indignation at Reg's advice (An outsider could always talk easily! What did he know about her classmates and how they treated her?), even though deep down inside she felt it had held some wisdom.<p>

She also wondered what Reg had done as a schoolboy that he was regretting, now. Most of all, however, the girl puzzled over the riddle of what had driven him away from his own family and even stopped him from talking about it. She could think of nothing that would justify such an absolute break. Had this something to do with the mistakes Reg had talked about? Had he done something inexcusable that his parents could not forgive? But he seemed such a well-mannered, educated, and hardworking man! Whatever he had done, it could not be _that_ bad, could it?

Eventually, another thought occurred to her: if Reg was so intent on keeping details about his original family hushed up, it was remarkable that he had told Viola about it, was it not?

* * *

><p>Her little placement went well. Mr. Mørkscov, or Åge, as he still insisted she call him – quite usual in Denmark –, took her to markets to teach her how to discern which ingredients were of good quality, he let her watch him brew very complex potions, and also gave her some insight into the merchandising.<p>

When Viola asked about the Broderskab, he explained to her that soon after taking up his craft, he had realised how inconvenient it was to be so reliant on his suppliers, especially when it came to such rare ingredients like those derived from dragons and other rare magical beings. In Reg he had found someone he could entrust with the management of a high quality dragon reservation. In the decades since (about one and a half), they had acquired the second reservation in Sweden and had built up the hippogriff breed. There were also some smaller projects, for example two large fields of nettles on one side of the castle that brimmed with glumbumbles - small, furry insects – in the summer. Their secretion was used for treatments of hysteria – no matter if it was magically induced, caused by consumption of alihotsy leaves or the result of a mental illness.

It was all so very exciting. The possibilities that the Broderskab offered. Reg was a fair brewer, Åge had told Viola. Someone he would – at least insofar as there was no time pressure and an adequate recipe at hand – trust with the most difficult potions. He helped Åge when his workload surpassed his capabilities. Yet, mainly, Reg was a dragon keeper. He looked after the health and well-being of the creatures, made sure they had the best conditions to mate and breed, collected the ingredients (dragon dung, the scales that they shed in regular intervals, small amounts of blood from the harmless, handicapped specimen, and all kinds of dragon parts from those who had died), and nurtured the little ones whose mothers had abandoned them. He also had to organise the shifts, keep his men motivated and in good spirits, and handle all the financial aspects of the reservation. There rested a lot of responsibility on Reg's shoulders, but he seemed to take it in stride and enjoy the diversity of his tasks.

It was a matter Viola thought about a lot in the following school year – the many opportunities and challenges becoming a member of the Broderskab could present her with. As Reg had noticed correctly, this was her last year at Beauxbatons, and it was time to decide what career branch she intended to climb, now that she had settled her mind on _wanting_ to climb.

Her mind being in chaos, and fearful that she might overlook an important option, Viola eventually settled on writing up a list of professions that fitted her talents. Potions? –Definitely! At Charms and Herbology she excelled equally. Her performance in Ancient Runes, Defence Magic and Wizarding History was adequate as well. Only her 'Hippogriffe' (that equalled the Acceptable-grade of the British school system) in Transfigurations and her 'Pixie' (Poor) in Astronomy were limiting her options. And of course, following in Reg's steps was not an option. Viola had never taken classes in the Study of Magical Creatures. Her mother had advised her against it, calling it useless knowledge for a lady. However, she did not mind. Dragons were fascinating beings, but she did not think she would enjoy being a dragon keeper. The job was too rough, too physically demanding. And perhaps… too repetitive.

Viola was intrigued by the idea of creating something new. The way Åge was ever expanding on his business ventures thrilled her, but she did not think she was made for that herself. All that responsibility. However, having part of it on another level…

She had listed several dozen jobs and painstakingly written down all the advantages and disadvantages of about a quarter of it before she stopped. The young woman realised that there was one thing she sought in an employee that hardly anyone would be able to offer her. Except for the one that was constantly on her mind anyway. Viola wanted to earn her own money, work creatively and independently, but she was also a little afraid of suddenly standing utterly alone. Relying completely on herself. What she longed for was a guiding hand. That was probably why she had liked the concept of the Broderskab being Reg's 'surrogate family'. A father and many brothers that support him, would support _her_ … -And all that knowledge that was hidden in Åge and in the countless old tomes that rested on endless shelves in his library! Would it not be wonderful to work with this wise, open man? To learn from him?

.~*~.

Viola had come home for Christmas on the twenty-first. In the afternoon of the twenty-second, she had her official 'job interview'. She sat opposite Åge in one of the big, ruby-red leather chairs of his office, and watched him anxiously file through her application papers.

'Three Ds and four Ls?' the man summed up her EMOi-results. 'Not bad. And in absolutely the right subjects, as well.' The Examens Magiques Ordinaires were the Beauxbatons equivalent to the Hogwarts OWLs. In them, D, L, and H were the pass grades. D stood for 'Dragon' (almost scarily brilliant) and was the highest grade available. It was very hard to obtain, but Viola loved knowledge and due to limited distractions through her limited number of friends, she had plenty of time to soak it all in. She was, however, not the classical bookworm. She loved the feeling of being in a room full of old tomes, yes. But she did not devour them a dozen the day. Her great strength was that she kept everything in mind that she heard about. She listened to the teacher in class, listened to the elder students whispering about their recent assignments in the halls and homework rooms, soaked in every piece of information that was given to her from grown-ups. Had she been a bookworm, she would certainly have had a D in Wizarding History, as well. Unfortunately, the teacher had a very unorthodox, if not to say chaotic, teaching style. She picked out single events and discussed them over several lessons, but of course the test spanned whole periods, so that the students were forced to attain most of the knowledge on their own. That usually led Viola to a very busy weekend before the test, during which she forced herself to pour over the library books from dawn till dusk and draw up summaries of everything that had happened in said period. With these summaries in mind, she at least managed to obtain an L, the second pass grade, standing for 'Licorne' (of shiny intelligence, showing a pure, elegant mind).

Åge raised his eyebrows in wonder, the corners of his mouth imitating the movement. 'What I don't understand,' he said, shaking his head, 'is why someone with almost scary brilliance in Charms does not achieve more than an H in Transfiguration…' H stood for Hippogriffe (untamed, but strong knowledge), the last pass grade. Åge looked up at Viola, apparently expecting a plausible explanation.

She smiled nonchalantly, but with a hint of insecurity in the way she pulled up her shoulders. 'I don't know. I never really understood what turning mice into goblets or feathers into owls was good for. Perhaps if the transfigurations that were taught had been more practical – say, turning a used, old-fashioned robe into a new one or transfiguring a cushion into a comfy armchair – I would have been more motivated, but what we had to do in class never made sense to me…'

Åge weighed his head. 'I see your point. Are you continuing to EMSu-level?' The EMSu, Examens Magiques Supérieurs, were the pendant to the NEWTs.

Viola shook her head. 'No. I would not want to, and neither would the teacher accept me with this grade. I have only continued Runes Anciens, Sortilèges - that means Charms - , Magique défensif, Botanique, Potions magiques, and histoire des sorciers.'

Åge nodded with pursed lips. 'That seems an adequate choice. You have never taken classes dealing with magical creatures?' he enquired.

The girl shook her head, unsettled by the question.

'That is a little unfortunate. You see, as a good potions master, you need to have profound knowledge of the origin and ideal acquisition of your ingredients. As I have pointed out to you in the summer already, not all of them are of the same quality. Take the glumbumbles, for example. Their secretion is less effective if you kill them and extract it afterwards. I suppose the fear of the insect in the moment of death diminishes the tranquilising effect of its secretion. It's better to let them exude it on their own, when they feel safe. There is also a major difference between the blood of a unicorn foal and that of a fully grown unicorn stallion. Sometimes, it even makes a difference in which area a magical being has lived.'

Viola leaned forward with wide, eager eyes. 'I'm sure I can learn that in self-study. I'm quick in the uptake when things intrigue me!' she assured him, desperate to prove to him that she was qualified to be his apprentice. There was no alternative for her, she wanted this!

The potions master smiled at her benignly. 'I'm sure you are.' He put her application on a nearby table and lifted up his teacup instead. 'Now, tell me why you want to be apprenticed to me, Viola.'

The girl, holding onto the cup with the painted red flowers and the golden ornaments in her hand, started explaining about her fascination for the creational process of brewing and enhancing potions and of her admiration for the Dragen Broderskab.

'You do realise that once you've become part of our organisation, many other options will be barred to you?' Åge pointed out to his applicant. 'You will indeed find loyal companions in us, but to outsiders, your association with us might shed bad light on you. I'm sure you are familiar with our dubious reputation.'

'One that I don't understand,' Viola retorted with a frown on her face. 'Everyone speaks of you as if you were the darkest of all wizards, but I don't see any darkness in you!'

The older man chuckled. 'I guess some of this image stems from my forefathers who were certainly knee deep in the dark arts.' He shifted in his seat to find a more comfortable position. 'Yet I will not lie to you – I am knowledgeable in that field as well. In my opinion, it is folly to shun knowledge just because some people have and still do put it to bad use. On the contrary, one has to be learned in these matters to know the threat. The dark arts are dangerous and seductive, but when studied with caution, they are not per se damnable.'

Åge watched his young applicant for any signs of fright. All the girl showed, however, was irresolution about what to make of his words. That was good. So her opinions were not set in moral stone tablets. 'In any case,' he therefore continued, 'I am not going to demand that you occupy yourself with the dark lore. In fact, the Broderskab has a close eye on its members to ensure that none of them succumb to the lure of it.

'Nevertheless, the reputation is there,' he emphasised once more, 'and therefore, even though the Broderskab itself has much to offer, it effectually binds you to it, because many other institutions will not employ you once you've worked for us. It might, if I may be so bold, also have a negative influence on your marriage prospects.'

The pretty brunette that was seated opposite him smiled ruefully. 'There is not much to be spoilt there,' she commented. 'Apart from that,' she said with more confidence, 'making a good match is not my major objective in life.'

Åge eyed her appraisingly. 'That often is not a decision to be made by the young lady in question alone. Have you discussed this with your parents?'

'Yes,' Viola replied determinedly, choosing not to point out that her father's whereabouts were unknown. 'I have spoken about my ideas of my future with my mother and she has agreed that I should make my own decisions. I know she will not be pleased by my choice, but she will accept it.'

Her interviewer nodded assuaged. 'Well then, I see no reason why we shouldn't give it a try.'

The girl's face brightened up. 'Really?'

Åge inclined his head. 'I have not had an apprentice since Reg, but I have a good feeling about you.' He smiled encouragingly.

A frown crept upon his future apprentice's face. 'But you don't want to adopt me as well, do you?' she asked concernedly.

Her future employer laughed out. 'No.' He chuckled. 'That won't be necessary. How do you know about that?'

'From Reg,' Viola answered meekly.

'Ah, yes,' the man recalled, 'you mentioned that you were acquainted. You must know him pretty well,' he commented. 'Reg is usually quite monosyllabic when it comes to speaking about family matters. He likes to keep things to himself.'

'Yes,' the girl confirmed simply.

Åge clapped his hands and jumped up to move to his desk. 'I suggest that I hand you a copy of the contract, now, which you can peruse together with your family over the Christmas holidays. Are you free on the…,' he leafed through his calendar, 'the twenty-ninth?'

'Yes, of course,' Viola agreed immediately.

'Fine. Then we'll meet again that day and – should you agree with the terms – sign the contract.'

'Gladly,' Viola beamed, relief flooding her entire body, and jumped up to accept the scroll of parchment that held her glorious future.

.~*~.

The graduation ball. Viola stood nervously in front of the mirror, tugging at her dress robes to adjust them. They were a pale violet and a conciliatory present of her sister's to make up for the disaster on New Year's Eve about one and a half years ago. They were magnificent with fine stitching in dark violet and sleeves that clung to her upper arms, but beneath further stitching grew wide and puffy before they ended in tight, embroidered cuffs. They were not queenly dress robes, but that only showed that Agnetha had recognised her mistake and had paid more thought to what Viola wanted. Furthermore, with the belt just below Viola's chest and the subsequent wide skirt, the dress also hid that there was no veela clad in it but a girl made of flesh and blood. It was adding to Viola's insecurity that weighing nothing seemed to be extremely en vogue at Beauxbatons. Despite their sturdy headmistress (Madame Maxime had been appointed last year), the school emphasised on featherweight grace. Everywhere there were tall, lean girls, walking about with flowing motions. Viola in turn was an ordinary girl. 'The boys in my country would not get their eyes off you,' Adelaida, or short 'Laida', as Viola had started to call her, her Hungarian friend, would assure her when Viola expressed her misgivings. At Beauxbatons, she was sure, no boy spent a thought on her.

Still, someone had invited her to the ball. A quiet young man that Viola only knew from sight, but that didn't matter. She was glad that she had a date. In the Easter holidays, her mother had paid some dancing lessons for Viola, so that she was perfectly prepared for the occasion. Or she would be, if Laida finished dressing her hair.

'I'm almost done!' the younger girl proclaimed while she attached the last strand of hair in shiny loops to the top of Viola's head with the hairpins she lent the brunette for the evening. They were adorned with magical flowers that blossomed up when their wearer enjoyed herself. 'Et voilà!' she finally jumped up, clapping her hands in excitement, and looked expectantly at the reflection of Viola's face in the mirror to see her reaction.

They had decided to only put the top portion of Viola's thick masses of hair up. The rest enveloped her like a fine, silky curtain that had in the last years reached past her elbows. The young woman smiled at her friend. 'Thank you, Laila. I could never have done that myself.'

The Hungarian girl embraced her from behind. 'I wish I could come with you,' she sighed. The graduation ball was an exclusive event. Only seventh years and their families were invited. With about sixty graduates, those were enough people.

The ball took place on the last night of the school year. It did not matter that the EMSu results would not arrive for another month; there was no back to school even if a student had failed every single exam. It started with greeting the students' families and continued with a feast. It was not until ten o'clock in the evening that the musicians started to play and the first couples led the dance. To Viola's amusement, her mother was a highly demanded dancing partner. She, in turn, only danced twice. Once with her 'date' and once with a brother of a classmate who tried very hard to start a conversation with her while they swept over the dance floor. His name was Marc, and he was the eldest son of a fabricant of magical cleaning solutions who presently familiarised himself with his father's business.

After their dance, they sat together for another while and talked about small matters. Marc was surprised to hear that Viola had already secured herself a place as apprentice. It was not unusual that women worked for a time before they settled down and founded a family, but to actually pursue higher education through an apprenticeship (there were no wizarding universities) instead of just helping out in a shop or office was uncommon for a girl. However, Marc did not seem disturbed by the thought. On the contrary, he commended her bravery. Viola was glad to find someone in support of her views.

'I tried to learn to play the guitar,' Marc said after she had told him about her love of music, 'but I fear my fingers are too clumsy. Either that, or I'm simply too impatient,' he added with a smile that she returned. He leaned forward and gently took one of Viola's hands between both of his. He locked eyes with her. 'You're a beautiful girl.'

She smiled at him shyly, a small blush creeping into her cheeks.

'May I kiss you?'

Viola's bright grey eyes grew wide. She looked about, but since Marc had led them into a quiet corner of the garden, there was no one paying attention to them. When she turned back, his lips pressed against hers. Startled, she lifted an arm to push him away, but then she halted when her curiosity caught up with her. Reluctantly, she let him take the initiative.

Marc held her by the arms while he clung to her lips as if his had been hit by a permanent sticking charm. After he seemed to have gained the confidence that she would not run away immediately, he started moving his mouth awkwardly against hers, his hot breath flowing over her face. It held the bitter smell of someone who had drunk wine. When something wet (presumably his tongue) licked over her lips and at the same time one of his hands very un-gentlemanly cupped one of her plum breasts, Viola backed away.

He looked at her in bafflement.

'I'm sorry,' she uttered while taking a few steps back to the tables. 'It's time I go back to my mum.' Of course, the excuse was lame, but the young man was too startled for a witty reply.

'Oh, o-of course,' he stammered.

With that, Viola hurried away.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Notes concerning chapter 11:<strong>_

An overview of Beauxbatons' Grades:

D: Dragon (almost scarily brilliant)

L: Licorne (of shiny intelligence, showing a pure, elegant mind) [Licorne: French for unicorn]

H: Hippogriffe (untamed, but strong knowledge)

P: Pixie (could be called clever, but is mainly very annoying in its lack of studiousness and obedience)

F: Fwooper (driving the teacher mad) [Fwooper is an African bird whose song drives insane, or so the HP Lexicon tells us]

G: Goule (huh?)

Viola's grades in the EMOi (French for excitement):

Ancient Runes (Runes Anciens): L  
>Astronomie: P<br>Charms (Sortilèges): D  
>Defence magic (Magique défensif): L<br>Herbology (Botanique): D  
>Muggle Studies: L<br>Potions (Potions magiques): D  
>Transfiguration (Métamorphose): H<br>Wizarding History (histoire des sorciers): L

She did not take classes in Arithmancy, Divination, and Study of Magical Creatures.

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks for the unusually large number of reviews!<strong> I'd almost given up on the story, but now I'm working on it again and enjoying it. :)

Several people asked when we're going to see more of Harry: as you can see in this chapter, I'm moving through the years faster, now, while trying to show in sufficient detail how Viola moves from shy girl to somewhat more independent young woman (is this chapter perhaps too rushed?). It'll take three more chapters - with a possible glimpse of Harry at the Quidditch World Cup in between. In chapter 15, we're back in post-Voldemort Britain, then.

_**Have a great weekend!**_


	12. Let's Floo

**Disclaimer: Some of the characters and past events described in this story are the property of J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.**

* * *

><p><strong>12: Let's Floo<strong>

_July 1994 _

After a few days of relaxation, Viola packed her things. She was leaving home, probably for good. It took one small trunk to transport all her garments (robes took up much space) that had grown in number since her mother earned sufficiently but were still not nearly as much as most witches her age owned. A second trunk swallowed some books (Viola always dreamed of a huge collection, but her about thirty volumes were a rather poor start), photos, and other personal items. It was not much. She would neither take any furniture nor towels, bedding, cooking utensils, or any of these things with her. As Åge's apprentice, she was invited (and perhaps even expected) to live with his family in the castle. Viola could not suppress a smile at the thought. It was a dream come true. Seldom had she looked forward to anything so much.

Her mother was in the kitchen, preparing a festive family dinner to see her off properly. Since Viola was going to be merely a Floo travel away from her, she found the idea a bit strange. Her mother was not usually the sentimental kind of woman. Perhaps it was her way of ensuring equal treatment of her two daughters. Agnetha's good-bye feast had been her wedding, and since it was uncertain if and when Viola would step in front of the altar, the little dinner with her grandparents, her sister and her husband, her aunt, and her mother was presumably a way to demonstrate that her mother wished her as much luck in her future as she wished Agnetha.

It had been Viola's task to prepare the dessert, her speciality, but she had done so already in the morning, so that she had plenty of time to check her packing once more. Eventually, she pronounced her work done, and went down to help her mother.

All in all, the evening was jolly. Aunt Camilla had a way of entertaining a whole company of people all by herself, and so the time flew by quickly. Søren made a sceptical comment or two about Viola's plans, but she ignored him. In fact, she believed he and Agnetha looked less happy than they had in the past. It was two years since they had married, and Agnetha was still not carrying a child. To Viola that did not seem unusual – after all, her sister was only nineteen, not everyone wanted to become a mother at such a young age – but she had a feeling that the Blåblods had different priorities.

It was a little past eight when there came sounds from the small entrance hall, indicating the arrival of Viola's 'mover'. They finally were connected to the Floo network again. The girl jumped up to greet Åge, only to find that he had not come alone. Reg was with him. 'Miss Søgaard,' he greeted her and gave a hint of a bow with a mischievous smile on his face.

Viola's mother came into the entrance hall and bid the newcomers to greet the other guests as well; which they did. She had met Viola's new superior already at the signing of the contract, after which she had been led through the castle so that she knew where her daughter would spend the next years of her life. After getting to know Mr. Mørkskov and seeing the housings he dwelled in and offered to Viola, Mrs. Søgaard's doubts towards her daughter's choice had diminished noticeably.

When Viola showed the two wizards her trunks, Åge looked surprised. 'Well,' he commented, 'that I _really_ could have managed on my own.'

Reg chuckled. 'I told you Miss Søgaard is a humble young lady and you won't need my help with her baggage.' He looked up at the young lady in question and shrugged, his face still lit with an impish light. 'He wouldn't listen…'

Viola smiled and blushed a little at the idea of two adult wizards spending their time pondering over her worthless belongings.

With a wink, Reg charmed invisible wings on one of the trunks (by means of Wingardium Leviosa, that is, of course) and walked back down the stairs toward the Floo with it flying ahead. With a polite nod for her mother, he disappeared in green flames.

Viola said good-bye to her relatives; then she looked at Åge for direction. 'After you,' he motioned for her to go ahead. With a light tremble in her hand, Viola took some Floo powder. With a decisive exclamation of 'Mørkskov borg!' (since she had not done a lot of Floo travelling yet, she was a little too concerned with speaking clearly), she threw it into the fire and stepped into the green light.

Strong hands caught her when she stumbled out of the fireplace in the study and gently led her aside, so that she was not standing in the way for the next arrival. Her heart was pounding fiercer than usual in excitement. Yet, she was not as excited as she supposed she would have been had she chosen to go elsewhere. Viola was not facing the complete unknown. She knew the castle, knew some of its inhabitants. It made her feel safe in this new chapter of her life.

The dark haired potions master stepped through the Floo a moment later, her second trunk in tow. 'Shall we show you to your room, then?' he proposed.

Viola smiled in agreement. During her stay one year ago, she had gotten a better idea of the castle's layout. She knew that the study was situated on the first floor, next to the entrance hall that naturally spanned ground floor and first floor and to one of the two library towers. On the opposite side of the entrance hall, beyond the second library tower, were the Potions Master's chambers.

However, the three of them turned left, away from the entrance hall. They passed the painting of a Chinese Fireball that hung right next to the door of the study and walked further along the corridor. It was a rather narrow passage, but fortunately, there were several windows on the right side facing the inner courtyard, so that Viola did not feel trapped between the massive walls. To their left, they passed another door and a painting of a young woman patting a kneazle. The strawberry blond lady curtsied to Åge, who nodded absent-mindedly, his eyes already looking at the next portrait that hung behind a turn to the right next to a third door. Here, he halted and even sketched a bow to the portrait's inhabitant.

The gentleman in the heavy, golden frame had a long, white beard that was parted in the middle, a long, crooked nose, and Åge's dark eyes. In fact, Åge's nose was quite pronounced as well, though not as much as that of 'Egil the Disciplined', as which the label beneath the frame introduced him. The man that had passed away more than five and a half centuries ago, as the label also revealed, was dressed in rich fur and looked at the trio in front of him expectantly.

'Forefather,' Åge addressed him, 'this is my new apprentice, Miss Viola Søgaard.'

'A maiden? Highly unusual, highly unusual, though intriguing…' Egil commented.

'Viola,' Åge continued, 'this is one of my most accomplished forefathers and in fact the builder of this castle. He has kindly agreed to stand guard in front of one of the two entrances that lead to my storerooms and potions lab. I expect you'll see a lot of each other from now on.'

Uncertain of the conduct that was expected of her, Viola coppied the kneazle-owner's curtsy. 'Pleased to meet you, sir.'

The elderly man looked benevolently out of his frame down on her, apparently pleased, and lifted his thick fur hat in return greeting. Viola noticed a big, golden signet ring on his hand. Åge wore it these days.

'I think we'll leave the tour through our working area till tomorrow. It's late, you will want to unpack and make yourself at home,' Åge reasoned and bid them go further down the corridor. They passed the portrait of a snoring, corpulent elderly witch, next to which another door led to a room to the left. Åge opened it quietly to not disturb the painting's occupant and lit his wand to illuminate it properly. 'This will be your bathroom. You'll have it mostly to yourself, unless Reg stays overnight.' The room's windows faced out to one of the nettle fields. Inside, there was a bathtub that was large enough for two people and everything else one required in a bathroom.

They moved on to the nearby end of the corridor where the last door finally led to Viola's room. And what a room it was! Viola was always astounded by the scale of the rooms in the castle, but she had not expected to be assigned such huge quarters! The fireplace was situated directly to their left, next to the door. In front of it were placed four beautiful, old-fashioned, velvet armchairs around a circular table. A long bookshelf divided the room. Behind it stood a large four-poster bed that immediately called for Viola to bury herself in the cushions. Also in the sleeping area, opposite of the door in the far corner of the room in a niche, was a spacious wardrobe. All in all, this 'room' resembled a small apartment. Viola strode through her quarters with big steps, turning about and taking everything in, decorating the place after her own taste in her imagination.

After a moment, she pulled herself out of her reverie and thanked Åge profusely.

'Make yourself at home,' the Potions Master encouraged her. 'You are of course free to change whatever you want in the furnishings. Reg and I have a few things to discuss in my study. Perhaps you would like to join us there for a welcoming drink later?'

.~*~.

Charlie flicked his wand and made a number of rolled up socks fly on top of his full travel sack. Six weeks off duty! It had taken him a good bit of work to convince Reg to let him go for such a long period of time after he'd already had had a whole month off in a row last summer – after all, summer was the time when everyone wanted to go on holiday and they were notoriously understaffed. In the end, he assumed rather immodestly, he had only been able to convince Reg, because he had really impressed him with his good performance on the job.

The redhead looked very much forward to six weeks in his old home. He wouldn't spend the whole time at his parents' house, no – it was the Quidditch World Cup, and he had tickets to several of the games! Charlie was going to spend the time with some old friends of his from school camping.

However, there would also be visits to the motherly kitchen for some proper home cooked meals. Hell, he was looking forward to that. No matter how much he enjoyed the freedom of the dragon keeper's life, it definitely lacked homely comforts. It was about time that the new settlement was finished. About half of the dragon keepers, mostly those with families, had already moved into new homes, but Charlie was amongst those who still lived in the old quarters.

The new settlement looked promising; a place you could feel at home in. It was already planned well – with a little park and playground, a pub, shops and so forth. Yet the people started to make it their own. They gave it a special flair. Gardens were decorated with flowers and used for growing vegetables and keeping chickens. Marion, the wife of Gerd, was an artist and had designed a moving statue of a Romanian Longhorn for the small town square. The inn was named 'The Roaring Fire' and offered live music every Saturday.

When Charlie stepped out of his wooden hut, he saw Reg just coming out of his office. He waved to him and shouted, 'Your last chance: we've still got a spare ticket for England against Transylvania on Tuesday.'

Reg answered with his – by now – usual joyless smirk and shake of the head. They'd been over it several times. No matter what Charlie said, he could not talk his boss into coming to the world cup. Reg feigned a lack of interest in Quidditch, but Charlie didn't buy it. He'd rarely seen a better flyer. And where else did you learn to fly so well if not on the Quidditch pitch?

Still, try as he might, he bit on granite. 'Have a great time and don't forget the weekend of the 6th,' Reg bid him good-bye.

Yes, Charlie had dropped hints again and again that he wanted to learn how to gain control over a dragon the way Reg had done it when they'd first met. For a long time, the man had entirely ignored him. Yet eventually Reg had given in – demanding absolute secrecy from Charlie – and promised to make him privy to the knowledge on the first weekend in August. Charlie couldn't remember ever being so excited. This was a once in a lifetime chance!

.~*~.

'Nooooo!' Charlie and his friends shouted at the same time together with half the viewers in the stadium. It couldn't be! What was Frisby doing there? This was the fourth time that the Transylvanian chasers tricked him! Shouldn't he have learned by now not to fall for their feints? It was embarrassing! Ten to one hundred and forty – if Parkin didn't catch that snitch soon, they'd have no chance of saving this game.

.~*~.

The day before the big day. The Quiddtich World Cup Final! His dad was off to fetch Harry Potter, and the twins had somehow managed to convince him to take them along, filling his ear with talks of wanting to see a Muggle household. Yeah right. Sometimes good old Dad really was too soft.

Charlie was sitting in the kitchen and chatting with Bill when the kitchen fire flared up and turned green, announcing the return of the explorers. Fred stepped out of the harmless flames first, a mischievous grin plastered all over his face. A moment later, a heavy trunk crashed onto the kitchen floor with George in tow. The twins locked eyes, and Fred rubbed his hands in glee.

'What did you do?' Charlie asked while helping Fred to move the trunk with the initials 'HP' on its lid to the side, though he guessed he'd hear about it soon enough.

'Err, it's too early to say.' George walked over to the kitchen table and, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice, dropped into one of the chairs. As soon as Ron came through, he took a seat, too, to get away from the fireplace.

However, he wouldn't have needed to rush like that, for they waited several minutes for the fire to flare up once again. A moment later, a boy of Ron's age but somewhat shorter and skinnier collided with the kitchen floor.

Holding a hand out to help him up, Fred asked excitedly, 'Did he eat it?'*

The boy straightened up and brushed the soot from his clothes. 'Yeah,' he replied with a questioning note in his voice. 'What _was _ it?'* he enquired while he took off his glasses to wipe them on his too big t-shirt.

Fred's grin grew even wider, prouder. 'Ton-Tongue Toffee', he replied. 'George and I invented them, we've been looking for someone to test them on all summer…'*

They all started to laugh. After spending a day with luminous green hairs and eyebrows, Charlie had known better than to eat any sweets at the Burrow, no matter if they were offered by the twins directly or merely innocently lying around.

He noticed that the newcomer's eyes – freshly bespectacled – now wandered over to him and Bill. 'How're you doing, Harry?'* he greeted him and held out his hand.

The boy took it shyly, not giving an answer but merely staring at the signs of Charlie's daily work with the dragons. He shook Bill's hand with the same awe in his face.

Mr. Weasley apparated with a pop. Yes, and there was that face that Charlie had seen coming. After raising three boys, his father really should know better, although Fred and George admittedly played in a league of their own. 'That wasn't funny, Fred!' Weasley senior exploded – a rare occurrence. 'What on earth did you give that Muggle boy?'*

Ah, and there Fred made the fatal mistake on his part: if you want to hush things up before the matron of the house hears about them, you really shouldn't put on that grin that clearly says that you planned it all while you're denying just that.

'I didn't give him anything! I just dropped it… it was his fault he went and ate it, I never told him to.' Tsk, really not a good strategy.

'You dropped it on purpose!' Mr Weasley roared. Charlie leaned back a bit to protect his ears. 'You knew he'd eat it, you knew he was on a diet-'

'How big did his tongue get?' George asked eagerly. Charlie shared a pained look with Bill. Those two really had to learn a lot. Although… It did require a special talent to rile their father up like that. Neither of them had ever managed that. Or attempted it.

'It was four foot long before his parents would let me shrink it!' Wow, impressive!

For all his shouting, Mr Weasley's usually so placable demeanour undermined his authority in this instant. Everyone fell into laughter again. 'It isn't funny!' Mr Weasley insisted desperately amongst the roar of the voices around the table. 'That sort of behaviour seriously undermines wizard-Muggle relations! I spend half my life campaigning against the mistreatment of Muggles, and my own sons–'*

'We didn't give it to him because he was a Muggle!'* said Fred indignantly, the first sensible thing he'd come up with so far.

George immediately spoiled the effect. 'No, we gave it to him because he's a great bullying git.' He turned to the boy still standing near the fireplace. 'Isn't he, Harry?'*

That Harry Potter spoke up for them did not safe the twins. Now Mr Weasley resorted to the ultimate weapon: 'Wait until I tell your mother!'* he threatened. And to Charlie's dismay, she immediately appeared. Now the whole performance really lost its appeal. Quietly, giving a sign to Bill, he crept off his chair and stole out of the kitchen.

.~*~.

One would think that with all that duelling training at the dragon reservation Charlie was up to the task of meeting and defeating a rabid band of Death Eater in cooperation with a whole troupe of Ministry Wizards. One would also think that it would go quickly and without any casualties. Yet at the end of that long night, the Death Eaters had escaped, Bill had scored a deep gash in his arm, and the Dark Mark was looming over the woods near the campsite of the Quidditch World Cup. What was happening?

Charlie yawned as the stood in line for the portkey. While he could easily have Apparated back home, his father had told them to stick together after last night's events. And Charlie was perfectly fine with not having to be the one to calm his mother who certainly sat at home and worried.

In light of all the commotion at home, Charlie had half a mind to get back to Romania a week early. Reg would certainly appreciate both the extra hand in the reservation as well as his first hand news. Yet when Mr Weasley declared that he would go to work on his holiday, Charlie knew that he was needed at the Burrow. On top, he'd also received an owl from Reg a week into his own holidays asking him to take over the arrangements for a special event at Hogwarts that would require the loaning of three dragons. It was the first time that Reg passed such an important task on to him.

* * *

><p>In the first year of her apprenticeship, Viola turned eighteen and accomplished to secure herself a number of regular responsibilities as Åge's assistant, such as brewing Pepper-up potion, preparing burn-salve, and restocking the potion stores in the multiple reservations. Three times four hours the week she spent with Åge, either harvesting and processing ingredients or working on potions. The rest of the time was hers to spend freely on her multiple tasks. At the beginning, this reduction of guidance and rules made Viola uneasy. Suddenly she had to determine what was right. Yet Åge's approval soon laid her doubts to rest, and the young witch started enjoying her master's trust and the freedom it gave her.<p>

Viola set up weekly meetings with her quartet. Now that all of them had left school, nothing could keep them from rehearsing regularly. They met by turns in each member's homes, the moated castle included. One of its guest rooms held a grand piano, so it quickly became their music room. In fact, the room was right beneath Viola's quarters and could be easily accessed via a small spiralling staircase. Viola could enter the narrow corridor that held the staircase through a door next to her bed. Through it, she also reached the owlery of which she was allowed to make free use, as well as the dining room. All in all, her living arrangements were perfect. Still, she sometimes wished for more liveliness in the old halls.

She had, for example, hoped to see more of Reg. As it was, he came by perhaps once a month for dinner, sometimes staying overnight. Hearing that he had a room of his own in the castle (the door to it was right next to the painting of the young lady patting the kneazle) had initially raised Viola's hopes of seeing him on a regular basis, but a glimpse into the room itself had soon confirmed the obvious: it looked as un-lived-in as it was. Yet they upheld the exchange of letters that they had begun during Viola's last year at school. In addition, Viola now also fought a 'quill fight', as they'd dubbed it, with Adelaida, her Hungarian friend who still had to sit her final year at Beauxbatons.

Yet quill fights only brought so much excitement. What Viola longed for was going out with friends; someone in her close proximity that she could visit and chat with at will. There was, however, no wizarding settlement near the castle to make new contacts in.

During one of his visits in November, she told Reg about her discontentment. The two of them sat in the library; Babette and Åge had already withdrawn for the night. Viola tried to gain an hour or two alone with Reg as often as the opportunity arose, cherishing his insights.

The dragon keeper crossed his legs leisurely and smiled, a drink in his right hand. 'Hm, well, I can hardly conjure up some friends for you, but I'm sure I could find some distraction…' He had this playful, teasing air about him that Viola had quickly grown fond of.

'Such as…?' she prompted him to go on, leaning over the armrest of her armchair in a manner of conspiring with her companion.

Reg calmly sipped his drink. 'Wait and see… Sunday evening?'

Viola straightened and folded her arms. 'Fine. But you'll have to tell me a little more or else I won't know what to wear.'

A smug smile tugged at Reg's lips. 'I'll get you something.'

.~*~.

A week later found Viola clinging to Reg's proffered arm in a set of muggle clothes that she did not quite know what to think of. Either they were the wrong size or muggle fashion was truly bizarre. In fact, what Reg had picked for her would have been frowned upon as too conservative by most muggle girls of her age and was a little too large (for what does a wizard know of female muggle clothes?), but for a young witch who was used to wearing wide robes, they were uncomfortably tight. However, when they entered the noisy pub in the heart of København to which Reg had taken her, Viola spotted several women who were dressed alike.

The room was crowded, and the air was filled with a strange scent that bit unpleasantly in Viola's airways. She soon found the source of it: many of the patrons blew grey-blue smoke that they drew from slim, smouldering sticks into the room. Next to the bar, a small group of musicians played a kind of music that sounded unfamiliar to Viola's ears.

Reg steered her to a tiny corner table where they sat down. A small menu advertised a large number of diverse alcoholic drinks of which Viola knew none and a miniscule number of dishes. A quarter of an hour later, two bowls of lamb stew steamed on their table, next to a pint of Irish ale and a glass of 'ginger ale' that Reg swore was despite its name non-alcoholic. By then, Viola had grown accustomed to the polluted air and started enjoying the symbiosis of violin, drums and flute that wound its way through smoke and chatter to her ears.

They talked little that night. It appeared to Viola as if Reg had simply taken her along on a foray into the Muggle world that he had planned to undertake anyway in order to provide her with the distraction she desired. There was no forced attentiveness; the evening was casual, and Reg seemed at ease with their surroundings.

At some point, spirits in the pub reached a high point, and two couples started dancing in the small space between musicians, bar, and the tables. Upon seeing people dancing so closely together, Viola suddenly grew much more aware of her male company. His gaze was directed toward the neighbouring table, where a group of men played cards, so that Viola could throw some furtive glances his way. She liked looking at him. She could not help it; she caught herself at it whenever he was around. And she felt so secure in his presence, so appreciated for who she was.

Her heart thumping fiercely, Viola sidled closer to Reg on the corner bench and gingerly placed her head against his shoulder. When there was no apparent reaction, she slowly relaxed her body against his side. Warmth flowed from his body into hers. She held his firm arm tightly in her fingers. When another song had ended and another tune began, they slipped down and closed around Reg's hand.

Gently, his thumb caressed her skin.

.~*~.

Another Christmas Eve. It was Viola's first at the castle. Her family had of course expected her to spend the holidays with them, but Reg had mentioned in his last letter that he was going to be at the castle during Christmas Eve and parts of Christmas Day …

Viola decorated the Christmas tree in the dining room together with Babette and Ella. They mixed red and gold Christmas bulbs with sweets-filled paper hearts that they had crafted the previous day and added silver garlands. The castle had already been decorated with everlasting candles, mistletoes and a larger Christmas tree in both the entrance hall and the great hall in which the annual Christmas feast of the Broderskab had taken place two days before.

'Hvor er far?' Ella enquired impatiently. It was the man of the house's privilege to conjure up the fake snow that lent the Christmas ornaments their romantic winter look.

'Åge is still in Sweden, skat,' Viola told her. The wizard visited the second dragon reservation of the Broderskab. 'Look,' she pointed at a spot on the tree and handed the girl a silver bell – one of those who rang on their own every few moments. 'There is still a gap.'

Ella hurried to place the decoration on the tree.

Out of the corner of her eye, Viola saw Babette watching her darkly. She pretended not to notice. In the past six months, she had found herself in several situations in which Åge's wife had suddenly been moody and hard to handle.

The door opened, and Reg strode in. Viola rose with a smile from where she crouched over the many boxes of Christmas ornaments on the floor, but before she could react any further, a small shadow rushed past her into the man's arms. 'Reg! Will you make it snow?' Ella asked, sitting on her big brother's arm.

'Det er far's opgave,' her mother intervened strictly. She went over to Reg and pulled the child out of his arms.

He winked at the girl and shrugged. 'I'm sure he'll be here soon.' He sidled to the dining table, poured himself a cup of tea from the pot that a house elf had served earlier, sat down, and slipped a cookie into his mouth.

Viola had to hide a smirk about his nonchalant attitude in the face of Babette's brittle welcome. She moved closer and sat down on the seat next to him. 'Want to come and cook ris à l'amande with me?' she prompted him.

He lifted an eyebrow. 'Is that such a difficult feat that you need an assistant?'

She held his mocking gaze and crossed her arms imperiously. 'Absolutely. Think of the hacking of all those almonds. Do you really want to leave that up to a weak little girl like me?' she asked innocently.

'I'd never,' Reg retorted in fake indignation, his left hand covering his heart in mock outrage. 'To even _imagine_ that the tender hands of such an excellent violinist would work with dangerous hacking tools…'

'That's settled then,' Viola exclaimed with glee. 'Off we go to the kitchen.' She jumped up and seized Reg by his hand to pull him away. When her skin met his, heat rose to her face. Fortunately she was already turning toward the door. Her fingers tightened around his and her heart beat faster as they strode through the corridor.

The kitchen tower was not far from the dining room. Of course, the house elves were not keen on giving up their rule of said domain, but Viola had forewarned them a week in advance about her plans.

However, not five minutes into their work, the kitchen door opened, and Åge peered in, still clad in his travelling cloak. He greeted Viola briefly and then turned to her companion. 'Reg? I need your help with the niger cinis potion. Do you have time?'

Her kitchen assistant looked apologetically at Viola and shrugged as he put down the bowl of nuts that he had just been about to attack.

'Can I come?' Being robbed so soon of Reg gave Viola an unfamiliar feeling of acute disappointment mixed with something else she could not put a name to. And watching him brew…

'What about the rice pudding? What's Christmas without ris à l'amande?' Reg teased her.

'I'm sure the house elves will be delighted to have the kitchen back,' the young witch countered, even though it exposed her eagerness to remain with Reg. Her eyes sought out Åge's. ' _Can_ I come?'

The potions master sighed. 'Do you remember that I promised not to involve you in certain darker aspects of magic?'

Viola straightened up. She took a deep breath and lowered her eyes. 'I see.'

.~*~.

Several hours later, two witches and two wizards sat in front of a big fire in the Mørkscovs' living room. They had eaten, some of them had sung, presents had been ripped open by an eager child's and an eager wife's hands, and huge, glittering eyes had given evidence of how well the presents had been received. Now Ella was in bed, and the adults were savouring a glass of gløgg (a kind of mulled wine). Both hands of the clock were drawing close to number twelve when the senior couple rose from the sofa and withdrew to their bedroom.

Since said room shared a door with the living room, Viola felt out of place in it, but she wanted to prolong the evening as much as possible. For a while, they sat in silence. Viola wondered what Reg was thinking about when they sat together like this without exchanging a word. Was he just thinking about business, something that had gone wrong that day? Or was he reviewing a memory of a moment long past? He had fifteen years more than Viola to remember… He must have already been pouring over his books in preparation for his EMOi when her mother gave birth to Viola. What had his life been like, back then?

'Is your brother younger or older than you?' she asked into the silence.

Reg's head snapped around, and for a moment his gaze was so sharp that Viola was startled. Then it softened minutely, and he turned back to the flames. 'Two years older.'

'Did I ask the wrong question?'

Reg shook his head. She could not see much of his face, but Viola thought she could see him smile benignly. 'No,' he assured her, 'you merely took me off guard.'

'Because you haven't told anyone but Åge and me about your family?'

A brief pause. 'Yes.'

Viola leant forward, her pulse quickening because she was uncertain whether her prying into Reg's private life was welcome. 'What was your family like?'

The subject of her curiosity sighed and turned toward her. Seizing her hand, he shook his head. 'I'm sorry, but giving you any more details…' He broke off. Brushing over Viola's hair, he rose. 'It's late.' Reg turned to leave the room.

Viola seized his hand. 'Don't go. Not just because I was too nosy. I'm sorry,' she said and hoped not to sound too desperate. Without much force, she pulled him back into his seat. 'Do you read?' she changed the subject abruptly.

After a moment, Reg chuckled.

.~*~.

It was a warm summer's day. In fact, it was oppressively hot. And yet there was no sign of the sun in the sky. On her free day of all the days they could have picked, dark clouds crowded the view out of Viola's window.

Viola sat morosely on her window sill and peered alternately into her book and into the wet void outside. Halt. Was there not somebody? A distant human-shaped figure? She pressed her nose against the glass.

Yes, there was definitely someone sitting on the water's edge of the castle moat. Completely drenched. On the spur of the moment, Viola grabbed her umbrella and hurried along the corridor and out of the huge front doors into the rain.

The water splashed up around her calves as she ran over the meadow. A few dozen paces from the figure, she stopped. The person sat on the floor, its legs drawn close to the body, in ignorance of the floods coming down from above.

'Reg?' Viola approached him cautiously.

No response.

She called out to him again. 'Reg?'

He blinked once. Then, in a monotone voice, he demanded, 'Leave me alone.'

Viola was taken aback by the bluntness of his rejection. She faltered for a moment; then she started another attempt. 'Come inside. There's enough room to be alone, and it's warm and dry.'

The drenched wizard turned his head minutely. The glare with which he stabbed Viola startled her. She took a step back. He had never been impolite to her before. Cheeky perhaps, but never so cold.

The young woman drew herself up to her full height and waited for him to realise his mistake. To explain himself. When he did not even show any signs of noticing her prolonged presence, she turned around and hurried back inside.

For a moment, she stood forlorn in the entrance hall. After a brief hesitation, she turned to the left set of stairs and headed to Åge's study. She knocked, and heard him bid her enter. 'Do you know what's wrong with Reg?' The question dropped from her lips the moment she spotted the potions master sitting at his desk.

The dark haired man who had apparently been pouring over a number of scrolls looked at her with interest. 'What are you talking about?' he asked.

'Reg's sitting outside in the rain, near the old willow stump. I tried to talk him into coming inside, but he sent me away. Rather impolitely, too.'

Åge leaned back in his seat and sighed. With ink stained fingers he rubbed his forehead. 'Don't take it personally. He received some very bad news today. I'll go and take care of him.

'While we're talking, please come to my study tomorrow in the morning. I would like to discuss your tasks in your second year of apprenticeship.'

* * *

><p><em><strong>Notes concerning chapter 12:<strong>_

On witches' clothes: in the movies, we often see the students of Hogwarts running around in Muggle clothes with their robes only worn casually and open on top. Even purebloods like Malfoy junior run around like that (or worse: in expensive business suits). I don't find that very plausible. I'm sure most wizards wear _something_ underneath their robes, but I would expect some other dress-like garment. I emphasise this especially for women, since after all they hardly wore jeans and t-shirt in 1692 when wizarding world officially disengaged from the muggle world.

*directly taken out of HP4, ch 5

Niger cinis: latin for black ashes. I must once more emphasise that my sole source of Latin is an online dictionary. I have never learned it.

Hvor er far? -Where is dad?

Det er far's opgave. –That's dad's task.


	13. How to court a pureblood

**13: How to court a pureblood**

* * *

><p><em>May 1996<em>

The late spring felt more like autumn. Even when the sun stood highest, the temperatures rose hardly above fifteen degrees Celsius. Only a few obstinate people still sat outside. Most chose a table indoors, if they felt like visiting one of the cafés at all.

A young lady sat behind a large French window, looking at the people passing on the street outside. She wore an elegant black hat and a simple, matching pair of robes. They contrasted beautifully with her full lips that were painted in a rich cherry tone.

Viola's past year had been quite eventful. Åge had pronounced her performance in her first twelve months of apprenticeship so sufficient that he saw no further need to oversee her brewing work when it came to basic and mildly advanced potions, balms, and salves. In the first half of her second year, they had met twice the week to work on the most advanced potions together. Later, Åge had involved her in his experiments and had let her co-write his research reports. In her remaining free-time, Viola continued replenishing the potions stock in the diverse reservations, and she visited music seminars. Her little quartet had broken up after their meetings became sparser and sparser, but instead she was soon offered a place in an orchestra in Århus. She explained her sudden luck with the sparse number of wizards engaging themselves in music, but she could not help being pleased by the praise of her experienced colleagues, and she basked in the opportunity to soak up their knowledge. Combining her two passions demanded a lot of time and energy from her, so that there was little room for other things in her life, but she liked it that way.

A peck on the cheek pulled her out of her reverie. Well, there was that. Anders was a fellow musician. Someone who had taught her quite a few things. And someone who demonstrated quite often that he liked being around her.

'Hej Lola,' he dropped into the seat opposite hers. 'So dark and lady-like today?'

She smiled at him. 'You were the one who said I should dress up.'

He grinned. 'So I did. Shall we go?' He jumped up again.

Viola looked up at him, often overwhelmed by his restlessness, his need for activity. How many seconds had he managed to stay put in that chair? She still had no idea how he survived the endless hours of rehearsal that demanded so much inner calm and concentration. 'Where to?' she wanted to know.

'The opera!' he replied.

Her eyebrows moved up in surprise. How was he going to survive _that_?

* * *

><p>Their seats were in the pit. Anders was a muggle-born, and Viola loved to listen to him talking about the world of his parents. There was so much to learn about this parallel universe. However, in the wizarding world, his heritage did have disadvantages. Viola felt somewhat lost and crowded in the narrow rows of seats. Endless times she had to rise so that someone could squeeze past her to get to their seat. She longingly looked up to the loges. The Mørkscov family loge's curtains were drawn. Had she known what Anders planned, she could have arranged for them to sit up there. Yet, perhaps it was better the way it was. Whenever Viola's gaze wandered upwards, Reg's image would flicker up before her eyes.<p>

They had not spoken to each other ever since that day a year ago. Reg had not come to any family dinner anymore, and he had not answered any of her letters. For half a year, Viola had neither seen nor heard anything of him. Eventually she had given up.

Lately, she had caught a glimpse or two of him in Åge's company in the potion master's study or one of the two library towers, but he had never so much as acknowledged her presence. Viola was deeply hurt by this inexplicable behaviour, but there was nothing she could do about it, and her busy life had pushed the disappointment to the back of her mind.

Anders' pulse was quick and hard. He could actually feel the blood press through his neck's veins. God, she looked beautiful with her soft, dark brown hair framing her pale face and her sensuous lips highlighted like that! He had been allowed to taste those lips a few times, but that was how far they had ever come. Lola was so different from any other girl he had ever met. In his school time, he had been with some girls, girls from wizarding families as well. Yet Lola played hard to get. She was all together from a totally different world, and Anders was deeply fascinated by that. A descendant from an old pureblood family, she had style that most girls lacked these days.

He watched her as she peered reverently about and took in the impressive dimensions of the concert hall. Yes, he had scored by taking her here. 'It's impressive, isn't it?'

She smiled at him.

Anders had read up a lot about old courting traditions. He was obsessed with the young woman next to him. His best friend had tried to talk him out of it, reasoning that what Anders now found so fascinating would in time annoy him, that the two of them were too different, but he would not listen.

The curtain fell, and the concert began, yet Anders hardly paid attention to the music. He threw furtive glances at Viola, loving the way she drank in the music. The way her grey eyes shone in the light of the few fairies who had not flown backstage when the musicians had started…

Two hours later, they left the concert hall. 'Shall we go to Arne's for a drink?' Anders suggested.

Lola wrinkled up her freckled nose. 'I'm rather tired, and I need to get up early tomorrow.'

Anders pushed his lower lip forward in a mock pout. 'Oh, come on! One drink, for me…'

She sighed and conceded, and relief flooded Anders' body.

They found Arne's almost empty except for an elderly couple that sipped a glass of wine. Anders ordered two glasses of champagne, which earned him another protest from Viola, but he would hear nothing of it. This was a special moment, after all. In fact, he could have used something stronger.

'Lola,' he seized her hand and held it tenderly in both of his, 'I really like being with you.'

She smiled at him. 'I enjoyed the evening as well.' With those words, she tried to extract her hand, but he held on to it. How innocent she was. His heart beat faster. Now was the time.

'What I mean is,' he said and paused to clear his throat, 'I'd like to spend more time with you. I -,' he fell silent and inhaled deeply. With the last remains of his nerves, he uttered, 'Lola, do you want to be my wife?'

Her eyes widened. Drops of sweat protruded on Ander's forehead.

.~*~.

Six voices echoed in a chorus through the dark underground tunnels and the empty halls. Some of them were male, some were female. They reverberated from the cracked ceiling and the crumbling pillars, passed through the heaps of bones and were swallowed by the old leather tomes and papyrus scrolls that lined the walls. A few of the dark objects hidden in niches and behind magically protected walls resonated with the energy flowing through the air.

Tumbled down stones drifted up from the floor. Cracks in the mortar disappeared. The old magics that kept this place hidden, had kept it hidden for nigh to two millennia, were once more reinforced and the building structure repaired. Although they at least nominally new of it, muggles forbade each other entrance to this place, because they feared it could collapse at any moment. It would not. The six chanters made sure of that; made sure that they could continue the secret meetings that had taken place here long before any of their family lines had first appeared in wizarding history.

Eventually, the voices ceased. For a moment no sound but measured breathing filled the emptiness. Then, as if by a hidden signal, each of the six figures reached out to its neighbours. For long minutes, they sat motionless, eyes closed, holding hands.

One of the female voices sighed. She extracted her hands from her neighbours', and clapped them cheerfully. 'Bon!' She exclaimed. 'And now I definitely need a glass of elderflower wine!'

A low round of relaxed chuckles rolled through the room. Someone lit torches while the others reclined to comfortable looking armchairs, and the elderly witch who had first spoken poured the drink.

It was a long established routine: first the magic, then the talk and merriment. Wielding power made giddy, and it was easier to live out this mood in a trusted circle rather than in public, where it would draw unwanted attention.

One of the men reached out to his left side neighbour and rested a hand on his forearm. The younger man had sunken low in his seat, dropped his head against the backrest, and closed his eyes. 'Er du ok?'

Without otherwise making a move, the questioned nodded minutely and grumbled assent. 'Just tired.'

'-And that's before the shift,' one of the others volunteered.

The tired man grimaced and gifted him with a dark look which was soon distracted by the appearance of a glass of honey-coloured wine in front of his nose. He accepted it with a polite nod and nipped at it.

'Well, we can keep this meeting brief, I think,' the fourth and last man in the round, who at age 137 also happened to be the oldest person present, said with a rasping voice that carried a thick Eastern European accent. 'The British Ministry of Magic has now managed to drive away its best chance against the Dark Lord into hiding. Has your source mentioned what Dumbledore intends to do now?'

The youngest man in the round shook his head. 'All I know is that they have stopped patrolling the Department of Mysteries after the Weasley incident and are further attempting to convince people of the Dark Lord's return by word of mouth. The arrest warrant against Dumbledore of course does not throw a good light on him. We've all read the press…'

'Do we have any new information on what He is planning to do?' Judyta's voice sounded more concerned than that of the others'. That was understandable, since she lived with her two children in Ireland, not far from the scene of action.

'Nothing beyond our usual speculation. Which I think is accurate. There is nothing left for us to do but wait and observe.'

.~*~.

She put another log onto the fire. The day was growing old and tired, and the latter also applied to her. In addition, sitting for hours in a house that was not hers and waiting – unannounced – for the owner with which she had not communicated in months was not making her feel comfortable. Still, the door _had_ opened when she had tried the handle. It had unlocked on its own. Did that not mean she was welcome?

To pass the time, Viola scanned the hundreds of books that sat on the shelves in the library. Eventually, she sat down near the fire and took up one of the newspapers. A feeling of unease seized her when she skimmed the pages that were filled with news about the dark wizard who once again haunted Great Britain. Faced with such horrors, Viola felt ridiculous for worrying about the trivial troubles in her own life.

A small sound came from the entrance hall. The front door fell into its lock, and heavy steps moved into the opposite direction, away from the library. Viola silently tracked them, heart hammering and heat rising in her face, and found Reg rummaging in the kitchen, his back turned to her.

Just when she made to clear her throat as a sign of her presence, she noticed that he had put out _two_ mugs. With measured, well accustomed movements, Reg cut up vegetables, salad, bread, and some smoked fish, piling everything up to some tasty looking pieces of smørrebrød. Not sparing Viola a glance, he turned around and took the boiling water from the hearth.

A moment later, the strong, spicy smell of coffee filled the air. Reg levitated the food onto the table that stood just left of the door, dished out two plates, and sat down, wordlessly motioning towards a second, empty stool. 'My shift starts in half an hour.' With that, he secured himself two sandwiches and started eating.

Slowly, Viola walked past him toward the grudgingly offered seat. A rather dominant part of herself wanted to shout at him, pull him out of his ruff, monosyllabic attitude, but her reason told her all of her raging (which would not be very impressive coming from a small, young woman – at least not for someone who was dealing with dragons on a regular basis) would not help. For a moment she was speechless.

'Someone proposed to me,' she eventually got straight to the reason why she had come.

Oh, there it was again. How she had missed that expression on his face! However, in this moment she was not sure it was a good sign. A high eyebrow, a cold glint in his eyes, a sardonic smile. 'So you're collecting proposals, now. And how can I be of assistance there?'

Viola inhaled sharply. Fine. She had asked for that. She knew he had a sharp tongue. By his standards, that might even have been a modest retort. She just wished she knew how she came to be on the wrong side of his sarcasm.

'I come for your advice,' she claimed. It was even partly true. 'There was a time when I could rely on it. Especially when it came to such matters.'

Reg appeared to accept that explanation. He swirled the coffee in his mug and drank a large gulp of the hot liquid. His reply was spoken with less edge in his voice, almost gentle, and the words were somewhat reconciliatory. 'I'm sure you have learned much yourself in the past years. You're a young woman, now, with two promising careers from what I hear and a number of friends. How could someone who does not even know your wannabe fiancé help with such a decision?' He looked directly at her for the first time in their conversation.

She held his gaze and requested softly, 'Talk everything through with me. Show me the other point of view, as you've always done. You know me better than anyone else.'

Reg's eyes focused on his mug. 'I knew Viola the child. I don't think I know Viola the woman.' He put the coffee down and got up. 'I need to go.'

'Can I wait for you?' Viola asked him pleadingly. She felt that he was averting her, running away. There were still fifteen minutes time before his shift started, and his cup was half full.

He stood with his back to her, donning his travelling cloak. 'I certainly won't remove you from my home by force.'

.~*~.

His boss folded the Daily Prophet and threw it onto the table so that it landed with a muffled pang and slithered over the smooth surface – closely missing a mug of tea – until it collided with a stack of other foreign newspapers.

They still used Reg's office as a meeting point, even though most other buildings surrounding it were uninhabited these days. The new settlement had been well received, and it started paying out too, since six new guys had joined their ranks in the past two years. They were still not quite enough people, but it had at least taken some of the strain away that they had been under before.

'At least people know now,' Charlie commented in reference to the article that had met with Reg's disapproval.

The other man lifted an eyebrow, snorted, turned his head away in disgust for the whole situation, and sprang up to check his equipment. 'Right. I see him quiver in fear already! Such fools…'

Charlie observed his boss intently. Reg rarely commented on the events in Britain, but he had often made use of Charlie's knowledgeability in the past year. He-who-must-not-be-named was a regular topic at this table. The second Weasley son wondered sometimes about Reg's interest in the matter. Granted, it showed foresight, since You-know-who would certainly not stop in Britain, but the ferventness with which he reacted at times seemed to stem from more than just serious political concern, especially since it came from a man that usually was hard to unsettle. Ever since the self-proclaimed Dark Lord had returned, Reg's interest had peeked. Now, finally, the British government and public had been forced to recognise that very fact.

'Hey, one of those fools is sitting in this armchair,' Charlie pointed out in answer to Reg's comment.

Reg turned around to muster him from head to toes. 'Are you?' he asked, his head cocked. A sardonic smile appeared on his lips.

Charlie snorted and shook his head. That man was almost spooky in the way he could switch from one mood to another.

* * *

><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 13:<strong>

The name 'Anders' is quite common in Scandinavia. In Denmark it is pronounced 'Anners' (swallow the D completely), with a straight A (as in 'arm').

Er du ok? –Are you alright?

* * *

><p><strong>AN: **Warmest thanks to everyone who favourited my story lately.

I know it's been a long time since I last updated, and I cannot make any promises as to how regularly I will post chapters from now on. However, I have filled out some of the holes I still had in the plot. Wait and see...


	14. A kiss

**14: A kiss**

It was eleven o'clock in the late morning. Viola had been up for three hours. She had slept in the room in which she had already spent another night, years before. The room was exactly as it had been then; empty but for a single bed. It had reminded her very much of that New Year's Eve when she had found refuge, an open ear, and good advice in this house. Back then, she had even thought that Reg had been interested in her on another level. Had that been the childish imaginings of a silly girl?

Now, she was wondering at the emptiness of this room. It was three and a half years since last she'd visited this house. One would think that whatever furnishings and decorations Reg had planned would be finished by now. Yet this room was empty. No paint on the walls, no curtains on the windows, only a makeshift bed that Reg had probably transfigured for her visit and never returned to its previous form. What was this room for?

Well, Viola had other things to occupy her mind, once she stopped to distract herself from them. She felt forlorn. What was she really doing here? Her 'host' had made it quite clear that there was more hostility than hospitality to be expected from him. And yet, following her gut feeling, she knew she would not be able to think clearly about what Anders' proposal meant to her before she had settled the matter with Reg.

Viola wrapped her robes tightly around her and tip-toed down the stairs into the kitchen, where she had already made some coffee when she'd first awoken. For a while afterwards, she had sat in the winter garden-like drawing room and looked out thoughtfully over the wild meadows behind Reg's house.

In two months she would turn twenty. Agnetha had married with 17. Still, Viola did not feel ready for it. In the past years, she had imagined herself concentrating on her potioneering and her music for a few more years before even thinking about a husband and family. Yes, she enjoyed Anders' company and had been curious enough about the whole matter of love and relationships to flirt with him a bit, even allow him to kiss her. Yet she had never fully committed to it. She had thought Anders would lose interest sooner or later.

And now that! She had been flattered and overwhelmed at first, had asked him to give her time. Anders was sweet and kind and attentive. Yet the more Viola thought about it, the more the certainty grew in her that it would be wrong. However, when she tried to voice any reasons, she was unable to put them into words. Her instincts said no.

And they had driven her to come here. Her pretext was the one she had given to Reg, but underneath, there was something else. Another instinctive reaction she was aware of but hardly dared to admit to herself. Because those were surely the confused feelings of a young woman that she would only be taunted for if she were to admit to them openly. Feelings she had had for years and had been rejected before. Viola thought of yesterday's cutting remarks and flinched inwardly.

The eight o' clock coffee had gone cold, for Viola had neglected to put a warming spell on it. Just as well – this way she had something to occupy her hands with; a small means of distraction.

Her night had been restless. She had been tossing and turning, going to sleep for an hour at a time and then waking up again to the anxious musings of her night time mind. Now, she felt driven to go upstairs. The night shift went until six in the morning, so Viola knew Reg had had only a few hours of sleep so far, but she could not wait any longer; she could not bear the suspense. She needed to sort this out. What and how exactly she would not have been able to say, yet there was a tension inside of her she could not take any longer.

With the fear of the uncertain written upon her features, Viola slowly, noiselessly, climbed the stairs. The fresh cup of coffee felt heavy in her hand, and she had a feeling as if she might drop it out of nervousness any moment.

Viola took hold of the door handle of Reg's room, silently turning it and pushing the door open. She had never been in there before. Three windows in the round opposite wall (both gables of the house formed a semi-circle, thus also the shape of the library below) let in the late morning sun. The light first met Reg's desk and a shelf that partly hid the desk from view before it streamed through a narrow corridor and eventually arrived at the door, in which Viola still lingered.

Her heart pounded strongly in her chest, pumping heat up into her neck and face. She was intruding. She had no right to be here.

And yet, she could not make herself turn around and leave.

Hesitantly, one step after the other, the young witch tiptoed forward, her gaze directed to the left, where more of the bed came into view with every inch she crept forward. It was hidden behind a corner and could therefore not be directly seen from the entrance.

The owner of the house lay on his back, his upper body bathed in sunlight, his face turned to the wall. Viola stood rooted to the spot and watched him. Reg's light brown hair lay in tousled waves on the pillow; his chest gently rose and fell. There was a scar on his right shoulder; a testament to the dangers of his professional occupation. He looked proud and peaceful.

Viola's sadness intensified at this sight. She would have denied it had someone else described it in such words, but looking at this scene was like seeing what she had always craved and still being unable to attain it. She felt small and tired in this moment. So tired.

Her blood pulsed violently as she slowly, silently, set the cup down on the floor and tiptoed closer to the bed. She was doing something forbidden. She was the little girl sneaking into the living room to steal a piece of chocolate from the sweets cupboard even though she knew her mother would disapprove.

_Just don't let him wake up._ Let him not send her away. Just a bit of comfort; that was all she needed.

The mattress sank in treacherously when she lowered her knee onto it, and Viola flinched. Her eyes were fixed on Reg's profile, always anxious that he might stir. Yet he showed no sign of waking up.

Oh-so carefully, Viola lowered her body further and further, until her hair brushed gently against Reg's outstretched arm. It was as if he invited her. Finally, her head sank down onto his shoulder. This was the moment. Surely he would wake up from feeling her weight. Viola's whole body was tense.

Nothing. Only the gentle rise and fall of Reg's breathing. Viola barely allowed herself any air of her own out of fear that her cool breath tickling his skin might give her away.

After a minute of no reaction, she allowed herself to relax against Reg's body. His shoulder was not the most comfortable cushion, and her left arm was trapped beneath her, but the warmth of his skin soothed the ache inside her. Viola closed her eyes.

She could hear is heartbeat. His skin carried the scent of hard work. It was a nice smell; a masculine one.

Something inside her unravelled. A lonely tear collected in the corner of her eye and slowly crept over Viola's cheek. She could feel the cool trail on her skin.

A pair of doves landed on the windowsill outside and cooed. Their heads moving jerkily, they almost seemed to be looking into the room, watching the scene inside.

Suddenly Viola felt movement under her. Before she could react with more than a flood of panic spreading through her body, she grew aware of Reg's arm drawing her closer against him. His shoulder pushed her face against his neck. His left arm spread his thin blanket over her. For a moment, Viola had known peace, now her heart raced at full speed. What was happening?! Why…?

She felt Reg's stubbly cheek rub against her forehead, his left hand now holding her arm as if to keep her in place.

Surely he was awake, wasn't he? You didn't move like that in your sleep. Her breath hitched.

After a few moments, she plucked up the courage to use her voice. A part of her mind still tried to convince her that Reg couldn't possibly be awake and that speaking would mean to tickle the sleeping lion, but her rational side won over. Just.

'Reg?'

A soft caress of her cheek answered her un-worded question. Viola's brain was slow to process it. He was awake. And he was not livid about her intrusion.

She nuzzled against his scratchy cheek again and again to make herself realise that this was indeed happening. Eventually, she raised herself on her elbows and looked at Reg with wide, questioning eyes.

There was a flicker in the man's face, a brief struggle not to avert her inquisitive gaze. It was a confession. Had Viola not noticed it, she might have mistaken the steadiness with which he met her eyes eventually for an unawareness of anything being amiss, and it would have confused her, unbalanced her. This was the reassurance Viola needed to stop the vertigo in her mind. This was real. This was deliberate.

They were locked in that contemplation of each other. Reg's fingertips began a slow dance over Viola's face. They brushed gently over her forehead and her temples, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. They caressed her cheek and brushed over her lips.

Viola closed her eyes. Oh how she felt that thumping in her chest! Neither her body nor her mind were quite ready to accept the attention they suddenly received. _From Reg._

Concertedly, Reg's thumbs moved over Viola's brows. It was a strangely relaxing sensation. The second tour over her temples and cheeks was made with the barest tips of Reg's fingernails that traced the path further down the sides of Viola's neck. Her skin prickled. A gentle smile unconsciously formed on her lips.

Reg's fingers moved back upwards behind Viola's ears. She hadn't known that her skin was so sensitive in that spot. Suddenly, she felt something soft fleetingly brush against her lips again. Her heart jumped. Her eyes fluttered open to the sight of Reg's face hovering inches from her own.

She stared at him, lost for words or even coherent thoughts. Her world was upside down. Viola's lips prickled.

Reg's eyes issued an invitation.

Viola looked at his mouth. His lips were dry, and his circle beard still looked carefully trimmed despite the first smatterings of stubbles on his cheeks. Something warm pooled in her stomach where before there had only been confusion.

Reg. A man. Not a boy but an experienced man, she thought incoherently in a failed effort of her brain to put into words what she felt. She grew aware of his scent again; even noticed the lines those extra years had drawn around his eyes and his mouth. Viola found them unutterably appealing.

Shutting of her stuttering mind, Viola accepted the invitation. She leaned forward and brushed her lips tentatively against his. The touch was warm and gentle.

Reg's hand caressed hers. Viola looked into his eyes, wanting to read his thoughts, to catch every flicker of emotion in his face, any sign of hesitation. She opened her hand, and Reg's slid inside.

Viola leaned forward again. A second brushing of one pair of lips against the other. She could feel his breath. A giddy part of her mind noted with relief that it smelled okay. No morning breath. Though there was the faint trace of… was that aniseed? Clever, the potioneer in her remarked.

Viola searched Reg's face again. For a sign; an explanation. She was afraid. Afraid of what would happen after. If she trusted him now, trusted his actions while his voice remained silent, if she let go of her inhibitions, her carefully trained reserve, what would happen in five minutes? What would happen when they'd left this room; when they'd stepped out of this alternate reality they seemed to be in? Would he still hold her hand? Would she still be allowed to kiss his lips?

Reg seemed to sense her doubts. He sat up; his arms reached out to her and pulled her against him, so that her chin rested on his shoulder and his warmth seeped through her clothes.

'Forklar dig til mig,' she murmured against his skin.

He started to sway her gently in his arms. There was unrest in him. He rubbed his cheek against the side of her head and nudged it with his nose to prompt Viola to turn her face towards him.

When she did so, she found Reg's eyes closed. 'Jeg skal,' he murmured against her lips and captured them with more fervour than Viola's gentle first test runs had possessed. His kiss was soft and demanding at once, as if Reg held back just enough to let her know that she could back out any time, even though his hands rested possessively on her lower back and pulled her close.

Viola did not know how long they clung to each other like that; only that she did not want it to stop. Reg slowly pulled himself into a sitting position and Viola onto his lap without breaking off the kiss. His hands strayed here and there – over her arms, to her hips – and in a corner of her mind Viola waited for the moment when he would grow bolder, uncertain if she was ready for it, but it never came.

Eventually, they sat in silence, she snuggling against the side of his head, he gaining his breath back. Reg fished the coffee from the floor and drank a few sips.

They salvaged these moments of togetherness, but with every minute the life outside crept closer again.

* * *

><p>Quietly they'd gone down and prepared a simple cold lunch. They'd almost wordlessly taken it outside, bringing the wicker chairs with them from the drawing room.<p>

Viola waited for Reg to make the first move, to explain what was happening between them. When he had eaten in silence for ten minutes, she decided it was time to give him a nudge. 'What's happened last year that made you turn away from me?' _And what happened this morning that changed your mind again?_

The dragon keeper set his cup back onto his saucer and leaned back into the wicker chair, an expression of sober contemplation on his face. He took his time, gazing into the distance, but Viola knew he would answer eventually.

When he eventually commenced to speak, she could sense that it was not easy for him. 'I have escaped someone's attention many years ago by feigning my death,' he started his explanation. His voice was calm, measured, and he did not look at Viola. Between each sentence he paused for a moment as if weighing his words carefully. 'I hid under false name with Åge's protection and kept my head down. For a long time I had good reasons to believe that I was safe, that the danger has passed, but in recent years there were signs that I'd been mistaken. A year ago, I received word that the person was out and about and killing again' – at the word 'killing', Viola involuntarily felt her fingers clutch her own cup more tightly – 'and I decided it was too dangerous for you to associate yourself with me. The person I flew from is vindictive; if they ever hear about me, they'll not only hunt _me_ down but also those close to me.'

Viola grew pale. Subconsciously, she wrapped her robes tighter around her body. So that was the reason behind all of Reg's secrecy. She still felt he could have handled her in a politer manner, but… it made sense now.

'And this threat is gone, now?' she inquired reluctantly, dreading the answer.

Reg turned his face minutely and gave her a sidelong glance that was answer enough. A rueful, joyless smirk. He lowered his gaze. His voice was subdued as he spoke. 'Last night merely showed me that the two of us already are too close, no matter what I do. I am a decent occlumens, but the D-,' he broke off, pressed his lips together for a moment, and continued, ' _this_ _person_ would certainly direct all their attention to prying all the information they could glean from my mind to get to know in what way I'd worked against them, and sooner or later they would succeed.' Reg placed his elbow on the armrest of his chair and covered his mouth with his fingers, his face turned away from Viola. 'Emotionally laden pictures are always the easiest to catch in a mind,' he uttered.

Had Viola ever dreamed up a scenario of Reg admitting to having feelings for her, she surely would never have managed to imagine a moment like this. The sky drew dark; rain clouds gathered, and the wind grew stronger while they sat in silence.

'How likely is it that this person finds you?' Viola dared to ask.

Reg lifted his eyebrows and shook his head in a gesture of helplessness. 'I could not possibly say. I _feel_ quite safe. To my knowledge they are unaware of my prolonged existence and rather preoccupied with other matters. Still, there is no telling what the future might bring. A single unfortunate coincidence…'

Viola nodded in silent understanding. The dark clouds circled around them. In the distance, over the moor, the first streaks of lightening flashed up. Over their meadow, however, the sky was still lighter. 'What you're saying, though,' Viola gathered her thoughts to make sense of what she'd been told, 'is that there is little we can do. We can only wait and see and keep on living our lives in the meantime.'

Reg turned around and scrutinised her with a reserved, assessing gaze. 'Quite so.'

* * *

><p><strong>End of Part II<strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Notes concerning chapter 14:<strong>

You may wonder why Viola doesn't make the connection to the events in Britain. Viola is not yet 20 years old. World politics are not that important for her yet, and media is not as omnipresent in the magical world as it is in ours. She knows something about the DE, but it's too distant for her.

50 points to the person who knows from which dark character (not HP) I've lent Reg's last words. :)

Forklar dig til mig – Explain yourself to me

Jeg skal – I will

* * *

><p>This is the end of the second part. We will now return to the present (two years after Voldemort's downfall) and the focus will shift from Viola to the main plot.<p> 


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